


I'd like to believe that I'd do it again

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheating, Enemies to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Relationship, title may be subject to change, to avoid spoilers of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: Whizzer thinks that he knows Marvin - he's hateful and arrogant and everything Whizzer despises in a man, but one night of irresponsible drinking and accidentally stumbled upon revelations might change his entire perspective. College AU.





	1. Difference Between Being Alive and Living

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's finally the college au I've promised! This is only my second Falsettos story that isn't a collection of one-shots, so I'm excited but weirdly anxious.  
> As most already know, I have written some of this story already in my other fic, 30 Days in Falsettoland. Those excerpts will be included within this story but most of this is new and unread.  
> Thank you for encouraging me to make this story happen!

Whizzer Brown’s first impression of Marvin when he sits down next him in their Introduction to Philosophy class is pretty mild, all things considering. The guy’s decently attractive—clean-shaven, wide-eyed, sharp-featured—but his abysmal fashion sense negates any inkling of interest that might have settled in Whizzer’s gut. The guy doesn’t even offer him a spare glance in greeting as he plops down in the seat, pulling out his laptop and textbook quickly and setting each on the tiny desk in front of him. And that’s…well, _insulting_ , to say the least; Whizzer worked _hard_ on his appearance this morning. It’s rude to not at least _acknowledge_ his efforts.

“Hi,” Whizzer says, finally drawing the other man’s attention, “Name’s Whizzer Brown.” At the abrupt greeting, the man reflexively pulls his body within himself, the anxiety of the first day of college showing plainly on his handsome face. Whizzer’s predatory smile widens.

The guy looks at him suspiciously, as if expecting some sort of trap, “Marvin.” And he says it _quick_ and _carefully,_ as if it’s some sort of _secret_. Taking back his prior dismissal, Whizzer feels a slight stir of interest.

“So you got stuck in this boring class too, huh?” He prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“Actually, I signed up for it.” Marvin corrects him, jiggling his pencil anxiously in his hand, “Sounded really interesting. It gets your mind working, you know?”

Whizzer gives him the obvious once over, challenging coolly, “Ah, so you’re one of those _faux-Intellectual_ types.”

Rather than cower and sputter like he expects of him, Marvin rises to the bait, his jaw locking and gaze narrowing, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, “You know, the kind that writes shitty screenplays at Starbucks and only uploads ‘artsy’ black-and-white pictures of dumb shit on his Myspace.”

At the barb, Marvin straightens his shoulders ( _the human equivalence of puffing out peacock feathers,_ Whizzer remarks snidely to himself), “I guess you’re one of those _Too Cool Poseur_ types.”

Whizzer tries to smother his grin, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marvin smirks at him, mimicking his earlier tone, “You know, the kind that watched too many ‘80s movies as a kid and so now actively acts like an asshole in a failing attempt to show off how _cool_ and _mysterious_ he is.” And Marvin seems confused when Whizzer only grins and shrugs in response, as if he were expecting to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t realize Whizzer likes the cute ones that bite back.

“You know,” He admits, leaning back in his chair, “Maybe this class won’t suck ass after all.”

Before Marvin can think of some “witty” comeback, the professor finally gets off of his fat ass and calls the class to attention. His untrimmed, salt-and-pepper beard reaches to his barely contained chest hair, and his long, flat ponytail doesn’t quite negate his already receding hairline.

“This is a class that relies solely on our relationship as a class,” Ponytail explains, but Whizzer is too focused on the Cheetos-dust staining his lips to pay that much attention to the words said, “You will be learning more from _each other_ than you will ever learn from the professor. I am simply a mediator rather than a ‘teacher.’” Beside Whizzer, Marvin has already started to take notes, his role as brownnoser becoming quite apparent in that moment. God, Whizzer would’ve hated him in high school; however, he also probably would’ve tried to blow him behind the bleachers as well, so…

“This class is based around questions,” Ponytail continues, “Questions to the _Form_ , questions to the _Man_ —questions that are supposed to never truly be answered in the universal sense. For example,” He scans the room of bored-looking college students before settling on Marvin and Whizzer, “You two gentlemen, please stand up.” Reluctantly, both men rise to their feet, but while Marvin looks almost nervous, Whizzer is just bored.

“I am going to give you a question,” Ponytail explains, his smile exposing gnarly-looking teeth, “Each of you will have one minute to state your position and then one minute to debate your conflicting stances with each other. Think of this as a preview for the rest of the semester. Now, you Sir,” He points to Whizzer, who has actually become a little interested at this point, “What is the difference between _being alive_ and _living_?”

“Easy,” Whizzer dismisses, answering without a second thought, “”Being alive is having a heartbeat. _Living_ is drinking a shot of whiskey every morning before class and having dirty, anonymous sex in a public bathroom.” A wave of snickers shudders through the class, but Whizzer only pays attention to the derisive snort from Marvin.

Whizzer cocks an eyebrow at him, “Got something to add?”

“Oh, are you done already?” Marvin asks, incredulous, “That was your big pitch? Living just means _sex_ and _beer_ to you?”

“No, sorry, you’re right,” Whizzer shrugs, snidely adding, “Can’t forget about _money_.”

“You know, I would scold you for treating this as a joke,” Marvin says, prevalent distaste and pity in his gaze, “But the sad part is that I honest to God think you’re _serious_.”

Whizzer feels the smirk drop from his face. Earlier, he had dismissed Marvin as a snide but mostly harmless mouse of a man—someone pretty and somewhat interesting enough to talk to and who could potentially save his boredom from this mind-numbing course. But that’s not true at all, he realizes.

Marvin, it turns out, is just a huge fucking asshole.

 “Being alive is having a heartbeat, yes,” Aforementioned Huge Fucking Asshole concedes, “But living doesn’t simply mean _excitement_ or _danger_ or whatever. It means _having a life_ —in all its sometimes exciting but mostly _boring_ glory. It means carpooling to work and cleaning out your car and flirting with pretty girls. You don’t need to try to _kill yourself_ to prove that you’re _living_.”

“So you’re telling me that _living_ for you means doing your taxes and having boring, monotonous marital sex every other month?” Whizzer challenges, crossing his arms over his chest, “This isn’t the _1950s,_ for fuck’s sake. Our culture has evolved from the oppressive societal norm of restraint. We are in the _Now_ _Generation_ where _living_ means taking it one day at a time. _Living_ means _wanting_ to be alive. And I can tell you, Marvin, hearing _you_ talk makes me want to _stop_ my heartbeat.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ponytail tries to interrupt, vainly trying to soothe the tension brewing in the air, “Thank you for the demonstration—“

“If you keep ‘living’ like that, you’ll be dead by the time you’re twenty-five.” Marvin declares tersely, his hands flexing at his sides.

Whizzer shrugs, “Better to die young than wish for death as a feeble old sack of bones.”

Ponytail raises his voice, “Okay, _sit down_ —”

Marvin scoffs, condescension dripping from his high and mighty tone, “You are perhaps the most _ignorant_ person I’ve ever met.”

“You know, that would hurt a lot more if anybody actually gave a fuck about what _you_ think.” Whizzer argues, glancing down at Marvin’s balled fists and smirking, “What, you gonna hit me? Funny; you seem more of a lousy lover than a fighter.”

“Do you ever _shut up_?”

Whizzer takes a step forward, presenting the left side of his face daringly, “How about you make me—”

“ _Enough!”_ Ponytail shouts, his face reddening, “You two, _out of my classroom_. You’re done for the day.”

Whizzer and Marvin turn to stare at him, “But—“

Ponytail points to the exit, reaffirming, “Out!”

Whizzer feels the heat of everyone’s gazes and whispers on his back as he hurriedly collects his things and storms out of the classroom, his cheeks flushing despite his strongest attempts to assert that it doesn’t bother him. _Fuck, this is going to be just like high school all over again._

“Nice going, Dick,” Whizzer gripes as soon as Marvin closes the door behind him, “You just _had_ to—“

“Hey, that was _not_ my fault,” Marvin denies, “ _You_ were the one who kept egging it on!”

Whizzer stares at him in amazement, “Are you seriously not taking _any_ responsibility?”

“I was following directions and making an argument,” Marvin says gruffly, pointing an accusing finger at him, “ _You_ were the one who wanted me to _punch_ you. I mean, _Jesus Christ,_ what kind of psychopath _are_ you?”

“I’d rather be a psychopath than the _literal human embodiment of a migraine.”_ Whizzer hisses, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction when Marvin jerks back as if he’s been slapped.

“You know,” Marvin bites back, “I’m just surprised you can use a word that has more than five letters.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Whizzer rolls his eyes, “You think you’re so much smarter than _everyone_ , don’t you?”

“Maybe not everyone,” Marvin admits tightly, sneering at him, “But I _certainly_ am smarter than some big-haired, smart-mouthed slacker who thinks that he has to act cocky and distant to cover up the fact that he’s just as scared and self-conscious as the rest of us!” He looks at Whizzer like he can see right through him, like he actually knows just what the hell he’s talking about.

“Let’s get something clear.” Whizzer walks toward him slowly, not stopping until he’s back him up against the wall. Marvin tenses immediately as soon as Whizzer looms close to him, his breath hitching and eyes widening. He leans his head back as far away as possible and averts his gaze, as if afraid to even look at Whizzer. And it’s so… _pathetic_. Disappointment simmers in Whizzer’s stomach at the showcase of such sheer submission, though he doesn’t quite know why he expected anything different.

“You don’t have a fucking _clue_ about who I am, got it?” Whizzer tells him tersely, adding, “You are the type of guy that likes to talk about _big_ things that you know very _little_ about. And I’ll be the first one to tell you, Buddy, _that_ will get your ass kicked.” A muscle in Marvin’s jaw twitches but the man stays silent.

Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Whizzer goes to back away when he feels hands wrap around his shoulders. Marvin reverses their positions, pinning Whizzer against the wall and looming over him. The grip around his shoulders actually kinda _hurts_ , and Whizzer immediately feels heat pool in his lower region. He has to catch himself from smiling in relief.

“Let’s get something clear,” Marvin mimics his earlier tone, staring at him dead in the eyes, “I don’t take criticism and advice from a guy like _you_.” And Whizzer doesn’t know what he’s referring to—his slacker persona, his pristinely upkept appearance, his particularly overt sexuality—but it lands regardless.

For a stupid, impulsive second, Whizzer almost wants to kiss him—just to see his reaction. Marvin distinctly reminds him of a wind-up toy. It’s so easy to get him going, but Whizzer’s still left waiting with baited breath to find out what exactly he’ll do once he finally lets go of the crank.

 Marvin moves away before Whizzer can do anything. He gives him one last look of disgust before collecting his things and walking away. Whizzer watches him leave, making idle note of the length of his squared shoulders, the width of his gait, the slope of his ass. He might be an asshole, but the man sure is pretty to look at.

:: - ::

The next day, he meets Cordelia in a remedial Biology course. Both of them testify that with one shared look of disgust at the bottled pig fetus, it’s bromance at first sight.

“I don’t know _how_ Charlotte could think this is relaxing.” Cordelia says _weeks later_ as they walk out of class together, “I start wanting to throw up the second I enter that lab.”

“That might be the professor’s B.O. rather the dissections.” Whizzer supplies helpfully. Cordelia chuckles but her phone’s text message tone prevents her from responding. She glances at it, her eyebrows raising.

“What, is she still coming for lunch?”

“Even better,” Cordelia replies, bemused, “She’s bringing a friend.”

“Aw,” Whizzer mocks, gesturing to her strange expression, “You jealous?”

“It’s a _guy_.” Cordelia scoffs, “Hardly.”

He immediately perks up, a salacious grin forming on his face, “A guy, huh?”

She levels him with a _look_ , “Keep it in your pants, Brown.”

:: - ::

“So where is my future husband?” Whizzer asks as he and Cordelia join Charlotte at their usual deli place.

“He went to the bathroom,” Charlotte says, “But this isn’t a set-up, Whizzer. He hasn’t said which way he swings.”

“Swinging, huh? So he’s a baseball player?” Whizzer sighs dreamily, only somewhat teasing now, “Oh please God, let him be a baseball player.”

“He’s in my Economics class,” Charlotte tells him, “I highly doubt he’s a _jock_.”

Whizzer feigns a pout, “Way to go, Fantasy Killer.”

Behind him, Whizzer hears an incredulous, scornful exclamation, _“Whizzer?”_ And he _knows_ that voice immediately, being forced to hear it every class each time he butts in and talks down to even the professor.

Suppressing an eye roll, Whizzer turns around to glare at him, saying curtly, “Marvin, when we leave Philosophy, you cease to exist in my thoughts. I’d like to keep it that way as much as possible.”

“You two already know each other?” Charlotte asks, causing both men’s hearts to drop.

“ _He’s_ the friend?” They say at the exact same time, spinning around to look at Charlotte incredulously.

 “Well, this is getting off to a great start.” Cordelia mocks with a shit-eating grin, “I feel like we’re all vibing super hard, you know?”

Suddenly, the casual lunch has developed the heightened tension normally reserved for a battleground.


	2. All These Supposed-To's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A college party allows Whizzer to see a different side of Marvin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a special case in the fact that I'm posting two chapters at once in order to celebrate the creation of this chaptered fic. The story will be updated sometime next week.  
> IMPORTANT: There is a time jump between chapter one and two. Chapter one was set at the beginning of their freshmen year while chapter two (and nearly all subsequent chapters) will be set during their senior year.  
> (Side note: this chapter was first published elsewhere but has been considerably lengthened with new content).

"—And then the bastard has the nerve to tell me that I gave the customer too much salsa for their chips— _too much salsa!_  I mean, what kind of complaint is that? Sorry I'm a fucking good person for not making the guy fork over ten cents for an additional scoop." As her tone grows more rapid and spiteful, Cordelia's cheeks adopt a scarlet red, though Whizzer is torn between blaming that on her anger or the third shot of straight whiskey she just did.

"Kill him." Whizzer tells her solemnly, causing her to balk.

_"No."_

Whizzer shrugs, suggesting vainly, "Blow him?" Cordelia looks even more scandalized at the thought, so he throws up his hands in defeat.

"Hey, those two are my only go-to pieces of advice when people come to me with a problem," He admits before he scans the crowd again, adding, "Shouldn't Charlotte be back by now? Surely she's done taking a piss."

"Do you think she locked herself in the bathroom again?"

"That was one time and I was high, so it doesn't count." At the appearance of her stern tone, Whizzer straightens his posture but Cordelia only giggles.

They turn to see Charlotte blazing her way through the throngs of inebriated college students, explaining brightly, "I ran into some familiar faces and brought them over." Following close behind her, Mendel and Trina ( _just Trina and Mendel,_  Whizzer dares to hope) grin and wave excitedly at the pair. At their presence, Whizzer's mood almost picks up until—like he'd been dreading yet expecting— _Marvin_  finally emerges from the crowd as well, lagging behind the trio with his hands shoved in his jeans and head held high.

Though Cordelia claps her hands together excitedly and runs over to Charlotte and the new three faces, Whizzer just stands aside, not so much as smiling as  _sneering_. It's not that he believes Cordelia and Charlotte shouldn't have other friends (sure, he's selfish, but he's not  _psychotic_ ); he even gets along with Mendel and Trina well enough. No, it's Marvin he can't stand— _Marvin,_  the pompous, condescending prick that looks at Whizzer like he's gum stuck to the bottom of his two-hundred dollar trainers;  _Marvin_ —the type of person who only laughs at his own jokes and brings a ninety-nine cent bag of chips to a potluck and believes everyone should cater to his every whim and  _got Whizzer kicked out of their philosophy class on the first day of their freshman year when a "fun and educational" debate exercise almost led to a fist fight._

Yeah, maybe he's still a little bitter about that.

"Who wears their letterman to a party?" Whizzer snorts into his cup of beer derisively, directing the comment at Cordelia but still making his voice loud enough to reach Marvin. The boy sneers at him, but Whizzer notices that his dig causes him to pick at his sleeves anxiously. He manages to catch his eye again and throw him a wink, laughing slightly as Marvin grimaces and narrows his eyes.

"You just missed the harrowing tale of my workplace hell." Cordelia informs them dramatically.

"Well, as you regale them the gory details," Whizzer says, shaking his now empty cup, "I'm going to get a refill."

"Oh, Marv, can you go get me one?" Trina asks nicely, causing Marvin to roll his eyes but comply.

As they walk together to the kitchen, Marvin shrugs and says almost off-handedly, "I'm surprised you're still here. Usually by now, you're off blowing some guy that smiled at you."

Having already learned that the best way to get Marvin to shut up is flirt with him, Whizzer just gives him a lecherous smile, "I was waiting for you, Sweetheart. What're your plans later tonight?" 

Marvin's face twists, and it's then that Whizzer notices that his eyes are a little too bright and his pace slightly teetering ( _started partying earlier then, I see_ ), "Why do you say things like that?"

"Because I'm hopelessly in love with you. Why else?" Whizzer deadpans, rolling his eyes.

And finally, that's when this Marvin transforms into one that he's used to, a superior smirk gracing his face as he says mockingly, "Well, I'm glad you've finally admitted it to yourself. You know, they say self-awareness is the first step."

Whizzer snorts, "You're one to talk about self-awareness. When's the last time you actually  _stopped_  talking when people looked disinterested?" Marvin scowls but doesn't respond as they finally make it to the kitchen and fill two cups of beer.

Whizzer stares at Marvin out of the corner of his eye and notices that the man is clearly in edge tonight. His shoulders, normally squared, are slumped over, his body turning within itself rather than trying to fill up the room like usual. Marvin has always been a little unkind, but he seems downright  _mean_  tonight, his features just a landscape of sharp and twisted edges.

More out of curiosity than concern, Whizzer asks, "What's up with you?"

"What do you mean?" Marvin grumbles, downing half of Trina's cup.  _You look so sad,_  Whizzer wants to say, but he doesn't dare let Marvin think he's actually worried about him. 

"You look like you want to fling yourself off of the nearest building." Whizzer phrases carefully. Marvin looks taken aback at his words, but he quickly shakes it off, acting flippant and causal even though his posture is now ramrod straight and shoulders pushed back.

"I'm fine," He assures him tightly, glancing over at him with apprehensive eyes, "Why do  _you_  care anyway?"

"I don't," Whizzer protests, shrugging, "I was just gonna suggest some apartment complexes that have high drops if you were interested."

Marvin smiles sardonically, "How sweet of you." 

Ignoring the tension building in the room, Whizzer takes a sip of his beer and feels the fizz coat his upper lip. He goes to wipe it off with his sleeve, but Marvin beats him to it. His thumb slowly,  _deliberately_  swipes across his lip, startling Whizzer as he stands rooted to the tiled floor. Marvin hesitates to pull back, letting his finger linger on the other man's lips.

"You have a nice mouth," He murmurs absently, as if unaware he’s voicing these thoughts aloud, "It's really distracting, you know that?" Whizzer swallows hard and opens his mouth to respond, but Marvin is already shoving past him on his way out of the kitchen.  _Well, that was…bizarre._

Shaking himself out of his momentary reverie, Whizzer quickly boxes that moment away into the back of his mind and resolves to think about it later. Right now, he's drunk and his friends are here and he just wants to have a good time. He'll deal with Marvin's weird mood swings later.

:: - ::

Somehow, Mendel gets the key to the host's locked basement, and they all spread out languidly on the collection of comfy sofas and recliners. Cordelia and Charlotte take possession of the small love-seat, cuddling close to one another and being  _cute_  and  _in love_  (and making Whizzer sick to his stomach). Marvin and Trina are on the slightly bigger couch opposite of them, putting as much distance between each other as possible (which is strange due to the fact that they're kinda dating and all but whatever). Mendel is sat at Trina's feet, smiling and gazing up at her like a lovesick schoolboy. In the very middle of all of them, Whizzer is splayed out on his back on the wooden coffee table, pleasantly buzzed and laughing along with his friends and feeling so fucking  _content_. He listens avidly as Charlotte recounts the time they all got wasted and tried to break into a cemetery, his heart constricting when he realizes that these days—of getting drunk and playing games and having fun—are almost behind them, graduation looming over each of them like a dark, foreboding sky.

"Hey, I have an idea!" Cordelia announces grandly, wildly waving her now empty beer bottle around, "Let's play spin the bottle!" 

"Are you kidding me? This isn't the  _seventies_ ," Marvin laughs, though his voice is slightly off, "I didn't know people still played that game."

Always one to contradict Marvin, Whizzer rises to his feet, "That's because no one ever wanted to play it with you."  He looks to Cordelia, giving her an encouraging smile, "I'm always game for generating jealousy and internal conflict that will potentially ruin friendships."

"No, let's play seven minutes in heaven." Trina suggests instead.

"That's no fun," Whizzer complains, pouting, "Then it'll be just the couples that get action. I'm lonely and horny. Cut me some slack!"

"We'll combine both, okay?" Mendel says, always the peacekeeper of the group. It takes a few more minutes to convince the entire group (by that, he means Marvin), but finally the six people sit and form a circle on the floor, an ominous bottle in the middle of them (And in all honesty, this is a pretty  _terrible_  idea, but hey, when you're drunk and bored, even bad ideas sound like  _great_  ideas).

Whizzer spares a single glance around the circle, surprised to find Marvin's gaze trained on him. He arches an eyebrow at him, prompting Marvin to look away and clear his throat, "Well, let's get this over with."

"I guess I'll go first." Mendel says nervously, side-eyeing Trina as he carefully spins the bottle. It teeters  _just_  past Trina and lands on Charlotte, who laughs and yanks Mendel up by the collar.

"Let's go, Hot Stuff." Charlotte says with faux-seductiveness.

"You better keep those hands above the waist!" Cordelia laughably calls after Mendel. The rest of the game goes on like this, obviously no one taking the game seriously as all of them take the seven minutes to talk privately with their so-called "partner." Whizzer himself gets Trina and Mendel once and Cordelia twice, and he soon notices that everyone is quickly losing interest in the juvenile game. 

"Okay, one more time," Cordelia announces, "Marvin, you get the last go."

Marvin nods and grips the bottle, letting a foreboding pause release in the room before giving it a healthy twist and letting it spin. The six watch with baited breaths as it turns to  _Trina, Mendel, Whizzer, Cordelia, Charlotte, Trina, Mendel—_

Whizzer stares wide-eyed at the bottle now directed at him, ignoring the gasps and snickers that resound from the group. He quickly regains his composure and gets to his feet, holding his hand out to Marvin and wiggling his fingers, "I guess we'll see  _how_  straight you are, huh?" He means it as a joke, but Marvin doesn't laugh. 

Instead, he bats Whizzer's hand away and rises to his feet, both his expression and voice void of all emotion, "Just promise that this isn't a plot to get me alone so you can murder me."

"Come on, Marv," Whizzer cajoles sweetly, "You know that I'm a  _lover,_ not a  _fighter._ Or, well, you'll know soon enough."

Everyone shares a laugh as Marvin and Whizzer both shuffle to the closet. As Whizzer closes the door behind them, he immediately winces at the sudden darkness. He fumbles around for the string hanging in the air, pulling it and sighing in relief as the room fills with a least a little light. Cramped in such a small space, Whizzer feels Marvin's body heat radiating from him, the two men only about a foot away from each other. He didn't feel so awkward before when he was with the others, but right now, every inch of his body is on high alert. The tension is so thick and heavy in the air, it's almost like Whizzer can taste it, the sour, bitter flavor sitting poignant on his tongue. 

He sighs and finally turns to face Marvin, deciding to cut through the bullshit, "Look, you know we don't have to—" Marvin nearly flings himself at Whizzer, knocking him back until he's pressed up against the wall and crashing their lips together. And well, this was...unexpected. Whizzer places his palms on Marvin's chest to push him off of him, but then Marvin flicks his tongue  _just right_  and his hands end up wadded in that damn letterman jacket instead.  _Oh, fuck._  Deciding to just roll with it and blame everything on his alcohol consumption of the night, Whizzer starts responding, tilting his head in order to deepen the kiss.  _Damn, maybe this is why Trina puts up with so much of his shit,_ he thinks distantly, remaining receptive yet pliant under Marvin's rough grasp. It's only when Marvin cups his face  _tenderly_  like they're in some fucking teen movie that Whizzer tries to take charge, biting Marvin's lip and roughly smashing their lips together. Marvin fucking  _melts_  into him, making small noises in the back of his throat that causes Whizzer to snicker. Marvin abruptly pulls back, his heated glare vitiated by how completely  _debauched_  he looks. Wanting to get the show back on the road, Whizzer rolls his hips and brings their mouths back together.

After what seems like hours, Whizzer pushes Marvin away, saying breathlessly, "Why haven't they called time yet?"

It's as if Marvin finally remembers how they got here in the first place; his eyes widen and his voice becomes panicked, "Do you think they heard anything?"

"What, you moaning like a two-cent whore?" Whizzer laughs as Marvin shoves him hard, "It's fine, Marvin. Let's just give it a few minutes before we walk back out. They're probably just trying to wind us up by not calling time."

"Okay." He vainly tries to regain his composure, fixing his mussed hair and letting the blush fade from his face. Whizzer tries to catch Marvin’s eye but the man resolutely avoids his gaze, unwilling to take responsibility for what just happened between them.

Deciding to be the adult of the two, Whizzer sighs and lays a hand on Marvin's shoulder, "Hey, if you ever want to talk about—"

"There's nothing to talk about," His voice is like ice, but his eyes are a furnace, "We played the fucking game. End of story."

Whizzer scowls, every sympathy for the closeted man vanishing, " _Fine._ Be alone in your  _pathetic_  self-delusions."

Marvin lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand though his hair, "Whizzer—" But Whizzer doesn't let him finish, pushing the door open and ready to forget this even happened. He walks back into a now deserted basement, their friends nowhere in sight.

"Where did everyone go?" 

"What do you mean?" Marvin asks, but Whizzer doesn't respond. He walks up the stairs and finds the latch done up again.

"Did they lock us in here or something?" He wonders, "What  _assholes_." He unlocks the door and flees, ignoring Marvin's indignant cries for him to stop. When he’s a safe distance away from the other man, Whizzer pulls out his phone and finds eleven texts and five missed calls from Cordelia. He quickly calls her back, "Where the hell are you guys?"

"The host found us and kicked us out. Apparently the whole  _'do not enter'_  sign really meant  _'do not enter.'_ " She tells him, "So we went to the 7-11 that's about four miles away. Are you and Marvin still at the party?"

"Uh,  _yeah."_

"We tried to warn you guys, but the bitch wanted us out as soon as possible—wouldn't even let us explain that there were more of us down there. Then we tried calling both of you, but neither of you would respond." There's a pause as he hears distant voices and a flurry of motion from the other line before Cordelia adds, "Hey, Trina is freaked out. Can you get Marv on the phone to calm her down?"

"We split ways as soon as we could," He answers stiffly, "I don't know where he is."

"Well, find him," Cordelia tells him, "We all took Charlotte's van over here, so Marv's truck is still there. Hitch a ride with him and meet us over here."

Whizzer hesitates, trying to think of some sort of excuse but eventually affirming weakly, "Sounds like a plan then."

By the time he finds Marvin, the man is already near his truck and arguing heatedly with someone in the phone, "What, did you think I  _died_  or something? It's not that big of a deal, Trina. Jesus, you don't have to know where I'm at  _all the time_. Can you not take a single breath without me right beside you?" Hearing Marvin’s clear berating of the poor girl, Whizzer's stomach twists as he remembers quite distinctly that Marvin, despite his charm and good looks, is not a nice person. But hell, neither is Whizzer, so who the fuck is he to judge?

His focus on Trina slips as soon as he spots Whizzer walking toward him, cutting her off with a curt, "I'll see you in literally five minutes."

"Trouble in paradise?" Whizzer mocks as Marvin slips his phone back in his pocket.

"Same old, same old." Marvin responds with a shrug as he climbs into his truck, "Let's go. Took you long enough to get here."

The ride is shadowed in awkward silence for a few minutes before Whizzer finally blurts out, "So, are you, like, gay or something?"

"That's none of your business," Marvin hisses, adding darkly, "But  _no."_ His tone is one of clear desperation and anger, a man clinging to a false sense of identity that had been stapled to his skin since birth. 

Whizzer sighs, leaning his head back against the headrest, "I think I should've drove. You're drunk and emotional. That's not a good combo."

"We're fine," Marvin points to the lit sign that stands out sharply of the dark surroundings, "See, we're already here." As Marvin pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine, Whizzer tries to open his door and leave as fast as possible, but Marvin roughly grabs him by the arm. He opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, his face mirroring the internal struggle that seems to be waging within him.

Whizzer rolls his eyes, demanding, "Spit it out already."

"You won't tell anyone." He doesn't phrase it as a question nor demand but as a simple  _fact,_ adding, "I mean, you could, but no one would believe you anyway; I'd make  _sure_ of it."

Whizzer snorts, "Are you threatening me, Big Boy?"

"I'm making sure we understand each other." Marvin corrects him icily, "Besides, nothing _really_ happened. _We played the game;_ that's it." At first glance, he seems more composed than he was in the basement, as if he had finally gathered his bearings. But then Whizzer looks closer and sees a muscle jumping in his jaw, his knuckles bleached white from gripping the steering wheel as hard as he can—he is the very opposite of calm and collected right now, and Whizzer feels the urge to push him even further, wind him up and see where he goes.

Just because he can, Whizzer lays a hand on Marvin's knee, "That's it, huh?" He expects him to shove him away and affirm his resolve like a good little straight boy, but Marvin  _hesitates._ He's staring down the barrel of a gun, and like the weak bastard that he is, he  _blinks._ Sensing an opportunity, Whizzer begins slowly stroking his thigh. He watches fixated in the pale lighting as Marvin slowly crumbles within himself, obviously torn between sticking to his life-long plan of repression (and unhappiness) and allowing himself this one sweet reprieve.

"Well, I mean—“ He looks down at Whizzer’s wandering hand, swallowing hard and continuing thickly, “I guess it doesn't... _have_  to be it. If you—If you want."

See, right now, Whizzer's supposed to be the  _nice guy_ —tell him that while he's flattered and all, getting into any sort of sexual relationship with him would be  _wrong_  and  _irresponsible_.  _You have a girlfriend,_ he'd remind him, grasping his shoulder and giving him a significant look,  _after everything you've been through together, you can't do this to her._ He's supposed to help him along this journey of sexual identity by being a simply  _platonic_  mentor who watches out for him and lets him discover his own sexuality in his _own_ way and time. Whizzer's supposed to  _not_  take advantage of a sad, lonely man who has no idea what he wants.

But Whizzer is  _not_  a nice guy, which is why he disregards all these supposed-to’s and leans in, tightening his grip on Marvin’s thigh and giving him a wicked smile, “You and I are going to have  _so much_ fun together, Marvin."

:: - ::

“So how was it, Gentlemen?” Cordelia asks mockingly as they all loiter in the parking lot, “Hot and steamy?” Sitting on the flatbed of his truck with his arm draped over his girlfriend, Marvin visibly tenses, the art of subtlety unsurprisingly lost on him.

Whizzer smoothly draws the attention to himself, saying over-salaciously, “Oh _yeah_ , like when Marvin accidentally elbowed me in the ribs? I totally blew a load in my pants.”

Charlotte nods approvingly, “Classy.” To the relief of both men, the conversation advances from the topic after that. Mendel and Charlotte start equally bemoaning the discontinuation of soft pretzels at the college cafeteria while Cordelia and Trina try to unsuccessfully pull Marvin into the debate of whether some shitty soap opera will be renewed for a third season.

All the while, Whizzer can hardly keep his mind from racing, the adrenaline of astonishment and attraction still burning in his veins. Though he wipes idly at his own mouth, his lips still prickle from the pressure of Marvin’s own. The thought refuses to leave his mind…

_I just made out with Marvin._

Though he knows he should feel a wave of nausea at the thought, Whizzer actually has to exercise restraint in order to stop from giving himself a high-five. After all, Marvin may not be earning any points in the personality department (seldom of Whizzer’s hook-ups do, really), but the guy is—objectively—pretty fucking hot. You know, in a sort of dorky, Jon Cryer sort of way.

Suddenly feeling eyes on him, Whizzer’s mind comes back into focus. He finds, in between Trina and Cordelia’s good-natured bickering, Marvin is trying but failing to discreetly look over at Whizzer. His glances are quick but frequent, as if he knows what he’s doing is stupid but he just can’t help himself. Honestly, Whizzer has never seen Marvin so _flustered_. His breathing is a little faster than usual (not enough to be conspicuous but enough to catch if you’re paying close attention), his right hand is jiggling absently, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down—

He’s a mess, and Whizzer gets the sick satisfaction of knowing that he’s the cause of it.

Whizzer forces a yawn, drawing everyone’s attention, “I’m crashing really hard. As much fun as loitering in front of a grocery store like thirteen-year-olds is, I’m gonna call it a night.” A chorus of _boo’s_ and _aw’s_ resonate throughout the clique.

Marvin, picking up on his social cue for once in his miserable life, clears his throat and adds, “You know, that’s the least dumbest thing you’ve said all night.” He scratches the back of his head and sighs, “I’m dead on my feet, too.”

“You guys are seniors in college,” Charlotte teases, “Not _senior citizens_.”

“Oh God,” Whizzer exclaims, feigning horror, “This is finally the peer pressure that DARE warned me about.”

“Whatever,” Charlotte dismisses, “Go home and sleep, then.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes and finally addresses Marvin, cocking an eyebrow, “You gonna give me a ride or do I have to charm the cashier in there?”

Marvin narrows his eyes at him, “Just don’t puke in my truck.” He jumps down from the tailgate, beckoning Trina to do the same by offering his hand to her.

“You and Mendel can ride home with Charlotte and Cordelia, right?” Marvin prompts. Trina shrugs and nods, bemusement painted on her face. Apparently sober enough to recognize her hesitance, Marvin kisses her, slow and sweet. Whizzer watches the kiss curiously, wondering if Marvin can actually fake passion or if Trina had never really known it to recognize its absence.

“I gotta warn you, Marv,” Whizzer says, walking towards him when he and Trina finally break apart, “I get horny when I’m drunk.”

Everyone rolls their eyes and snickers—all except Marvin, who gives Whizzer a _look._

:: - ::

Marvin barely closes the apartment door behind him before Whizzer is on him. He slams Marvin against the wall, slotting a knee between his legs and grinning at his choked moan.

“Now,” Whizzer brushes his lips against Marvin’s neck, feeling the man’s rapid pulse, “Where were we?”

:: - ::

“We need to talk about ground rules.” Whizzer says, slipping his underwear back on.

Marvin is collapsed on the bed, the mixture of decent beer and awesome sex lulling him to sleep, “What?”

Rolling his eyes, Whizzer smacks the man’s stomach, forcing him awake, “This isn’t a onetime only deal, am I right?”

Marvin sits up, looking oddly endearing with his hair mussed and lips swollen, “Not if I can help it.” He looks at him, suddenly weirdly shy, “Did you…What do you think?”

Whizzer shrugs, mocking airily, “It wasn’t… _horrible_.” The way Marvin’s soft expression hardens makes Whizzer unable to suppress a grin.

“What are these ground rules then?”

“Well, first of all,” Whizzer begins, picking up his pants from the floor, “No staying over. We screw, I leave.”

Marvin furrows his brow, pretending to pout, “So no cuddling?”

“Second rule,” Whizzer continues, ignoring the smirking man, “We do not hang out one-on-one unless it involves sex. We weren’t friends before; we’re not going to suddenly become buddy-buddy just because I give you blowjobs now. So no ‘coffee shop meet-ups,’ no ‘grab a quick bite before going to your place,’ no ‘catching a flick’—none of that.”

“Fine by me.” Marvin agrees, shrugging.

“Third: I’m going to screw other guys,” Whizzer watches the other man’s expression carefully, “And you can’t get weird and jealous about it. You’re not my boyfriend.”

“I’m still with Trina,” Marvin points out, rolling his eyes, “I don’t care who you fuck as long as it doesn’t affect me.”

“And this is the big one,” Whizzer motions between them, “This thing, it stays between these walls. I still think you’re a pretentious, arrogant prick, and I am going to treat you accordingly—especially around the guys.”

“I still think you’re a vapid, mean-spirited bastard.” Marvin responds whole-heartedly, “And since that impression of you has stayed with me for the past three and a half years, I don’t think anything will change it.”

“Good.” Whizzer finally finishes buttoning his shirt and stands, “Text me when you want to fuck again.”

“Wait, no goodbye kiss?” Marvin calls after him as he walks away, chuckling when Whizzer flips him off without even turning around.

:: - ::

The next day, when they’re all eating their weight in syrupy pancakes at Denny’s, Marvin and Whizzer sit far apart and barely spare a glance at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer breaks into Marvin and Mendel’s conversation, astonishment and horror in his voice, “Did I hear you say that you’re actually going to Mr. Finn’s lecture? _Voluntarily?_ Jesus, just pay for the lobotomy; it’s less painful.”

“You get ten extra points on your midterm,” Marvin tells him, scowling, “Mendel and I actually care if we graduate on time.”

Whizzer raises an eyebrow, “I was just wondering—you being a brownnoser and all—do you just _metaphorically_ suck your professors’ dicks or…?”

Marvin sneers, “Are you just _metaphorically_ an asshole or…?”

“Do you guys _ever_ stop bickering?” Trina complains, “Jesus, at least _try_ to get along for one minute.”

 _Be careful what you wish for,_ Whizzer thinks silently, catching Marvin’s gaze and smiling filthily at him. Marvin gives him a dirty look, but Whizzer catches his mouth twitch—just barely, and he realizes that this thing between them right here…

It is gonna be fun.


	3. Room For Exceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol the less I say about the Tony's last night the better, but Andrew's short shorts though, amirite?

Marvin nearly rips Whizzer's shirt in an attempt to get it off, pressing his lips to the sensitive part of the other man's neck and biting down hard. Whizzer's whole body ripples, as if struck by lightning, and he pays back the man kindly by pulling at his hair.

Less than an hour ago, they were both an octave away from screaming at each other in the parking lot of Target. It's actually funny how things work out now.

"Why so frisky, Marv?" Whizzer taunts in between ragged breaths, leading the man over to the bed, "Trina not put out this month?" 

Marvin pulls back to glare at him, his force harder than usual as he pushes Whizzer onto the bed. It's utterly intoxicating to see him this way—the domineering stance, the taut lines of muscle, the self-assured smirk on his face. Marvin's always looked full of himself, sure, but this is different. Before, when he's wearing the mask, he looks like he's trying to be bigger than he actually is, paranoia and some sense of inadequacy driving him to overcompensation. Right now, however, Marvin knows  _who_  and exactly  _what_  he is, pride and confidence demonstrated in his every move. Right now, Whizzer has never been more attracted to him.

"Play nice." Whizzer teases when Marvin nearly  _forces_  his legs apart.

The man just chuckles darkly, "When have you ever wanted that?" And that's true, but Whizzer doesn't like to be so  _predictable_. In retaliation, Whizzer leans up and kisses Marvin softly, mimicking how the man had kissed his girlfriend earlier. He had expected Marvin to stiffen and pull away with a terse reminder of how this isn't how it works. That's what Whizzer himself would've done. Instead, the man embraces the rare display of soft affection, returning the kiss almost reverently. And that...that isn't what Whizzer wanted. At all. 

Abruptly switching gears, Whizzer bites Marvin's lip, laughing at how the man immediately scowls and pulls back.

"What happened to playing nice?" He demands, his bottom lip already starting to swell.

"You said it yourself," Whizzer reminds him, roughly pulling him back down, "When have I ever wanted that?"

It's so unexpectedly easy to fall into this new routine.

:: - ::

As Whizzer stares blankly at the wood grain of the table, he thinks very seriously of smashing his own head in.

"Are you almost done yet?" Whizzer whines, glancing over at the obviously frustrated Marvin sitting across from him. Thick books and stained spreadsheets fan out across the table, but they seem to be of little help to the man. Marvin looks absolutely  _ragged_ —his hair mussed, his face unshaven, his eyes glossy. He looks like he hasn't slept soundly in days, and while Whizzer would like to contribute that fact to his own glorious cock and its spell-bounding ability, it looks like the man’s exhaustion is due to stress more than anything.

"I have a test over this in two days," Marvin grits out for the umpteenth time, ignoring Whizzer's eye roll, "And I barely scraped through the introductory course last semester."

"Why did you take this class anyway?" Whizzer asks, turning his nose up at the textbooks, "It sounds like watching _paint dry_ is more interesting."

Marvin sighs and leans back in his chair, his hands coming up to thread behind his head. The action pronounces the wiry muscles and veins in his arms; Whizzer is again painfully reminded of what Marvin said they were _going to do_ after he finished this agonizing study session in _just ten more minutes, I promise._

"It's required for my major," Marvin adopts a superior expression, "Shockingly, you need to know how investments work to get a finance degree."

"Boring." 

Marvin scoffs, muttering, "You're telling me."

His response surprises him, and though Whizzer honestly doesn't care, he can't help but prod, "What do you mean? I thought you liked math."

Marvin just gives a noncommittal shrug, "I'm good at it.” He glares bitterly at the spreadsheets, amending, “Most of the time, anyway."

"That didn't answer my question," Whizzer leans closer, suddenly interested, "You're telling me you weren't a mathlete in high school?"

"No," Marvin laughs at the thought, looking down and tapping the table absently, "I had _some_ self-respect." He pauses, seemingly lost in thought, before he cuts his eyes back up at Whizzer and admits quietly, "I was a theater nerd, actually."

Whizzer blinks, "Bullshit."

"It's true. I was the lead in nearly every play," Marvin assures, smiling faintly at the memories, "Macbeth, Willy Loman, Christopher Columbus..."

Whizzer snickers at the mental image, drawing an icy glare from Marvin. He throws up his hands in mock-surrender, "Not laughing at you. Jesus, don't be so insecure. It's just so— _bizarre_ , to picture you in the spotlight. I always pegged you for the stuck-up wallflower type."

"I was great," Marvin tells him, "A real natural, Ms. Goldberg called me."

Whizzer leans back in his seat and cocks an eyebrow, "So how come you're studying investment banking?" 

Marvin snorts, "Instead of what?  _Theater_? Oh come on. That's just throwing money away. Finance is— _literally_ —where the money's at."

"True," Whizzer concedes, flashing him a smile, "I do like my men rich." And he should leave it at that but Whizzer finds himself adding, "But seriously, Marvin, you think I'm studying photography for the cash? I'll probably be close to broke for the rest of my life—with the exception to my lifestyle as a sugar baby for rich guys." He ignores Marvin's eye roll and continues, "I'm just saying—it's important to do what you love, you know? Makes you less inclined to blow your brains out."

Marvin narrows his eyes at him, "You want me to switch my major in the last year of college?"

"Of course not. Jesus Christ," He sighs, explaining tersely, "It can be a hobby. You know,  _regional theater_. There's that place on second street, the one with the big sign of a naked lady. Try that place." 

Marvin's hard, skeptical expression softens as he actually starts turning the words over in his head. He looks down at his ink-stained hands and then over at the mountain of scribbled notes—all illegible and intricate and meaningless. And behind that exhaustion and self-proclaimed superiority bullshit, Whizzer finally just sees a young, lost kid.

Marvin spends so much time trying to appear like a gruff, unflappable prick that it takes awhile to realize that at his very core, Marvin is—fundamentally, in his aspirations and speech—a fucking  _dreamer_. He's always wanted it all— _money, family, happiness_. But what he's doing now—half-assing his way through a degree in a field he hates, fucking some indifferent tramp rather than his girlfriend, forcing himself to play these roles of straight man and content student—it's killing him.

It's honestly killing him.

Reflexively, Whizzer reaches across the table and takes Marvin's hand into his own, thumbing over the man's knuckles and trying to provide any sort of comfort. He doesn't know why but sometimes he feels weirdly responsible for Marvin and his eventual happiness. It matters to Whizzer, in some abstract sort of way. He knows that it shouldn't—Marvin's an ass most of the time, and Whizzer can hardly stand him even when he's blowing him—but it does either way. That's why he's stayed rather than left when Marvin kept prolonging his study session; why he even asked about his dreams and ambitions in the first place; why he's holding his fucking hand right now.

Remembering himself, Whizzer draws his hand away. Stupidly, he feels himself flush in embarrassment, so he tries to cover it up by standing abruptly and saying, "So are you gonna go back to your place and fuck me or what?"

Marvin—who had been studying Whizzer in quiet, bemused amazement—snaps out of his own reverie, loudly shushing him and scowling. However, he does gather up his things and nods to his question, much to Whizzer's relief. When they leave the library, Whizzer can't help but notice that Marvin has transformed back into his tired, hollow self. Against his better judgement, he brushes their hands together and smiles comfortingly at him. And it feels awkward and forced on his face, but Marvin relaxes and smiles back at him, regaining some color in his face.

Very rarely do soft moments ever happen between the two men, but when they do, Whizzer has to admit…

They’re kind of nice.

:: - ::

"You should blow me." Whizzer requests casually, lounging on Marvin's couch naked and trying to find something decent on television.

"I did last week," Marvin points out, walking out of the bedroom and plopping down next to him, "If anything, it's your turn."

"So we're keeping score now, are we?" Whizzer glances over at him, suddenly confused, "Why did you put on underwear?" At the question, Marvin immediately draws within himself, his elbows and knees pulling together and making him look like a tortoise without its shell.

“I guess I just wanted to,” Marvin says, always on the defensive, and at Whizzer’s overdramatic eye roll, he snaps, “What?”

"You're such a prude," Whizzer grins, reaching over and thumbing the waistband, "Take it off."

A corner of Marvin’s mouth twitches, but the man remains adamant in his resolve, slapping Whizzer’s hand away, “You’re such a pervert.”

“Oh come on,” Whizzer wheedles, “I never get to see you naked.” At Marvin’s scoff, he clarifies, "That's only when we screw. And especially then, I'm a little  _distracted_.”

Whizzer sidles closer to Marvin, raising his arm and looping it around the man’s shoulder. He opens his own legs deliberately, biting back a remark when Marvin’s gaze immediately drops to his exposed crotch. _Jesus, it’s almost too easy._

“Now who’s the pervert?” Whizzer teases, softening his tone when Marvin glances up to pin him with a dirty look, “Oh come on, Marv, _please_. I wanna enjoy the view.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Marvin admonishes him, but Whizzer can tell by the lowered slope in the man’s shoulders that he’s given into the flattery. The man strips off his briefs, rolling his eyes but flushing when Whizzer feigns a gasp of wonder and amazement.

Don’t get Whizzer wrong; Marvin—regardless of all his personality shortcomings— _is_ a piece of art, every exposed crevice of the man inciting a low simmer in his gut. However, Whizzer does like to get under his skin, too, so when Marvin obeys his request, Whizzer does his damnedest to take his sweet time analyzing every inch of Marvin’s body with a salacious grin before meeting his eye again.

At Marvin’s unimpressed look, Whizzer defends himself, “Like I said: enjoying the view.”

“Am I really just a piece of meat to you?” Marvin asks, and it’s one of those rare moments that he doesn’t seem to have some ulterior motive or underlying implication in mind. His tone is one of genuine curiosity, as if Whizzer is just one of his investments to analyze and evaluate.

The question is uncomfortable but expected. After all, they’ve been doing this thing for nearly two months now, and usually parameters have shifted or routines have been established by now. It’s best to be clear on where they stand at all times. As far as Whizzer can tell, Marvin hasn’t shown to be the lovesick, clingy type that Whizzer has been unfortunate to deal with from time to time. This thing—while ill-advised and doomed from the get-go—has actually been fun. 

“Not just a piece of meat,” Whizzer answers him, giving him a thankless pat on the cheek, “You’re also a pretty face.”

“Funny. But really though.”

Whizzer sighs, shrugging, “Isn’t that what I am to you?”

“No,” Marvin protests, smirking a little, “You’re also a pain in my ass.” He pauses, adding cheekily, “ _Literally_.”

Whizzer laughs despite himself, “Did I just hear _Marvin_ make an anal joke?”

Marvin is smug, pointing out, “And you say I’m not funny.”

“Don’t get so _cocky_.” Whizzer counters, pleasantly surprised when Marvin lets out his own laugh.

And if someone had told Whizzer that he’d been naked in Marvin’s apartment and giggling with him like schoolgirls, he would have laughed in their face. It’s at that moment that they both remember themselves, sobering up immensely though unable to wipe the grins from their faces. It’s strange but not so much in a way that prevents Whizzer from laying his head on Marvin’s shoulder, testing how his skin feels against his hair.

“No, you’re not just a piece of meat.” Whizzer answers him, looking pointedly at the television and ignoring Marvin’s surprised look.

“If I wanted just sex, I wouldn’t go through this much trouble, you know?” He continues, “I mean, you know how much it’d suck if word got out? Cordelia and Charlotte might hate me, Trina would _definitely_ hate me—why bother, with all those ugly variables?” He pauses, giving Marvin a chance to guess, before he answers, “I like a challenge, Marv. I get bored easy. Every once in awhile, I gotta change the games that I play. It makes it a hell of a lot more interesting.”

“So I’m a game to you?” Marvin asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t beat yourself up. _Everything’s_ a game to me.” Whizzer sighs and repositions his head, right over Marvin’s heart, “I’ve always sorta liked you, you know. You never backed down from me, even when I made you look like an idiot. You’ve caused me a lot of grief over the years, not gonna lie, but you’ve never _bored_ me. Not yet, anyway.”

Marvin pauses, “I guess you want me to be _flattered_ by that.”

“Feel however you want about it; it’s the truth,” Whizzer draws back and untangles himself from Marvin, prompting, “So same question about me then.”

Marvin stares hard at him for a moment too long, vague emotions flitting across his gaze. He seems conflicted as to what to say, what to _admit_. Finally, he settles on, “You’ve never bored me either.”

Whizzer smiles, “Oh, stop, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Marvin sighs and pulls him back in, shutting him up with a long kiss. And it has become familiar by now, the way Marvin paws at his back and tilts his head to the right. It should _bore_ Whizzer, how familiar the sex has gotten.

It doesn’t.

:: - ::  
“Hey.” Marvin says an hour later, tangled in the sheets of his bed.

Whizzer jumps at the sound of his voice, having been convinced he was asleep, “Yeah?”

“What you said back at the library,” Marvin’s gaze refuses to leave the ceiling, studying each crack in the dry plaster, “I—uh, thanks. It’s nice to know that you’re not a dick all the time.”

“Look, just don’t be so hard on yourself. That pitiful, self-doubt shtick? It isn’t sexy.”

“Good to know.”

Whizzer thinks about saying something else, weirdly wanting to prolong the conversation, “When’s Trina supposed to get back from her interview?”

“Um,” Marvin looks at his clock and grimaces, “In about five hours from now. Shit, I promised her that I’d take her out for breakfast when she got back.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest boyfriend.”

Marvin finally looks at him, raising a finger, “Don’t start.”

“Better get some sleep, Prince Charming. Your fair maiden awaits at Denny’s.” Whizzer closes the door behind him, feeling lighter than he’d felt in months—no, _years_.

Maybe Marvin really isn’t just a piece of meat.

:: - ::

When Whizzer finally gets home, he finds Charlotte passed out on his ratty sofa.

“You are the biggest asshole in the world.” Charlotte rouses sleepily as Whizzer shakes her awake.

“ _I’m_ the asshole?” Whizzer demands, “You broke into my apartment!”

“You promised to keep me company when Cordelia was holed up in her room this afternoon working on her thesis.” Charlotte points out, sending a shockwave of recollection through Whizzer, “ _See?_ Now who’s the asshole?”

“Point taken,” Whizzer forces her to make room on the sofa, leaning back and closing his eyes, “Sorry about that. M— _My_ newest…thing went over a few hours.” He scoffs, putting false heat behind his words, “He was too busy _studying_. Made me wait an entire two hours before he let me screw him. I mean, have some consideration, right?”

“So you had a little study date while I watched stupid cat videos on your shitty Wi-Fi?” Charlotte clarifies, furrowing her brow.

“It wasn’t a date.” Whizzer corrects her, “I don’t go on dates.”

“My bad,” Charlotte yawns, “I just thought that went against your weird rules for hook-ups. You know, never hang out unless you’re screwing?”

Whizzer tenses as the realization hits him. Maybe that’s what prompted Marvin’s question of parameters; Whizzer completely disregarded his own guidelines established since day one. Anxiety over the weight of his mistake threatens to choke him, and he wildly thinks of breaking it off altogether, if not for just posterity reasons.

But then he thinks of crooked smiles in florescent lighting and bony knees knocked together and _You’ve never bored me_ on his lips.

“Well,” Whizzer amends, trying to keep his voice light and casual, “There’s always room for exceptions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was MIA on this fic. I'll try to update faster. Thanks for your patience.


	4. You're Damn Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very long chapter to make up for the fact that I haven't stuck to my schedule like I'd promised. Lmao, sorry about that.

Nothing changes between them, really.

They still fight  _all the time,_  hurling snide remarks and insults at each other that land like punches. Marvin still likes to pretend that he's some golden child, with his obnoxious rhetoric and inflated self-importance and constant condescension to  _everyone_  that holds a different opinion than him. Whizzer still likes to sink his fingers into Marvin's insecurities and  _twist_ , the thrill of knocking that smirk off the man's face almost better than the sex.

Almost.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes throughout the apartment. Whizzer thrusts a few more times into Marvin before he hurdles off the edge, muffling his cry by pressing his face into the other's shoulder. Marvin follows not long after that, trembling through his orgasm—almost as if he's  _surprised_  by it. They both chase after the euphoria until it finally slips away from them, leaving both men gasping but sated. Whizzer pulls out and collapses beside him, unable to hear anything except labored breaths and rapid heartbeats.

Not even thinking about it, Whizzer takes Marvin in his arms, burying a hand in the man's hair and letting his breathing even out. As he comes back to his senses, he begins to hear the faint hum of traffic from outside, a faint but constant reminder of the world around them. The beeping of horns and turning of engines seems to come to Marvin's attention as well because he suddenly stills in Whizzer's embrace, as if he's just become aware that he's only playing some fucked up, perverted fantasy within these four flimsy walls. Whizzer distracts him by lazily tracing shapes into his stomach, practically wringing the tension out of his body like a wet wash rag.

"That was," Marvin pauses, finally getting his breath back, "Good."

Whizzer snorts, pressing his mouth in the crook of his neck, "Very articulate."

"What did you expect?" Marvin argues meekly, baring his neck like a touch-starved kitten, "You want me to write a ten stanza poem about your dick?"

Whizzer feigns a sigh, "Is that too much to ask?"

Marvin snickers, mocking airily, " _Oh Whizzer Brown, I love how your lips stretch around my cock when you're going down."_

"Don't take this personally, Marv, but I don't think poetry is your strong suit."

Marvin grins, absently stroking the inside of Whizzer's thigh, "Come on. That was funny."

"It was  _lame_." Whizzer argues, his mouth making its way along Marvin's jawline, "I don't even think I'm attracted to you anymore because of that."

Marvin leans into him, playing along coyly, "Really?"

"Yup," Whizzer looks distractedly at Marvin's mouth, "You really blew it."

"Not yet," He says, seemingly enjoying the way Whizzer hisses when Marvin grabs his over-sensitive cock, "Maybe later."

Whizzer bites Marvin's mouth, muttering, "Dick."

"Asshole."

Mustering up his strength, Whizzer abruptly flips them over, pinning Marvin firmly against the mattress and hovering over him, "Where are your manners?" Marvin cuts his eyes up at him, a flush beginning at the base of his neck and spreading up his face. Whizzer can't help but laugh, "My bad. I forgot that you actually  _like_  being pinned down."

Marvin doesn't refute this, but he does say, "There's no use in starting this. I may be young, but I can't get it up again  _that_  fast."

"Or at all, when Trina's involved." Trina is a touchy subject between them, one that Whizzer just has to barely mention in order to set Marvin off. 

He doesn't know why he says it. After all, though he wouldn't mind a fight, he's not necessarily craving one right now. 

The playfulness drops from Marvin's face and he actually pushes Whizzer off of him, sitting up, "Why do you always have to mention her?" 

Whizzer shrugs, answering honestly, "It just slips out sometimes." Now that it's brought up, though, he can't deny himself the opportunity to ask, "Do you even feel guilty about doing this to her?"

"Do you?" Marvin throws back sharply, swinging his legs off the bed and turning his back to him.

Whizzer has to think about it, "Not really." Every once in awhile, when their eyes meet and Trina smiles apologetically at him for whatever Marvin is spewing then, there's a faint flicker of discomfort in his chest. He and Trina have never been close per se, but it's impossible not to feel  _a little bad_  for fucking her boyfriend. 

He can't imagine what it must feel like to actually be close with her and betray her like that.

"Sometimes," Marvin answers quietly, "When I'm with her and she does something that reminds me of you."

"Like give you head?"

"She plays with my hair, like you do." Marvin answers, sounding vaguely uncomfortable, "It doesn't make any sense, really. She did it first, of course.  _You_  should remind me of  _her_  when you do it. Not the other way around."

Whizzer doesn't know what to do with this information, so he stays silent and lets Marvin lament. Instead, he simply watches as the man restlessly rolls his shoulders, the fluorescent lighting above making the sweat glisten on his toned skin. He's alluring in an abstract, unattainable way. No one has really caught him, Whizzer believes. Marvin has always held everyone at arm's reach, closing the shudders within his eyes every time that something becomes too close to home, too  _real_. Whizzer used to contribute the distance as another sign of the man's pretension, as if he believed himself to be too high above everyone to give anyone leverage on him. But now that he's actually spent time with him—has gotten to know Marvin intimately in the dim lighting and tangled bedsheets—Whizzer thinks that maybe Marvin is just  _scared_.

Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of giving someone a map of his weaknesses and trusting them to not destroy him in the end.

No one has really gotten to know the  _real_  Marvin. To his friends, Marvin is just the snobbish but harmless kid whose bark is bigger than his huge. To his teachers, Marvin is just a try-hard with so much potential that it seems to choke him at times. To his girlfriend, Marvin is the fulfillment of some unrealistic, romanticized fantasy. But to Whizzer, he's...

Whizzer isn't saying that he himself knows the real Marvin, but he thinks that maybe he's gotten the closest.

Reaching over, Whizzer curls his hand around Marvin's bicep, enjoying the feeling of hardened muscle under his palm. 

"What are you doing?" Marvin asks, curious.

The sensible question makes Whizzer shake himself from his daze, pulling back abruptly and getting out of bed, "Nothing. Can I take a shower here?"

"Uh, yeah." Marvin turns to look at him, bemused, "I guess so."

Whizzer walks away and locks himself in the bathroom. There's this weird sort of pressure in his chest, but he ignores it as he gets under the streams of hot water and just  _breathes_.

:: - ::

When Whizzer gets out of the shower, Marvin is still lying in bed, seemingly trying to keep himself awake with only minor success. And though the bed looks really warm and Whizzer is really tired, he pulls his underwear back on anyway, looking around for his pants.

"What are you doing?" Marvin asks, stifling another yawn, "It's like one in the morning."

"I told you. I don't do sleepovers." Whizzer points out, cursing himself for getting so caught up and losing track of time.

"Oh come on," Marvin leans over and catches Whizzer's wrist, smiling temptingly at him, "I won't tell if you don't."  

Whizzer hates to say that he doesn't yank his hand away at first, "We have enough secrets between us."

"Those guidelines are arbitrary." Marvin declares, "How does actually  _sleeping together_ ruin our dynamic of already figuratively sleeping together?"

"Trust me, it becomes a slippery slope." 

Marvin rolls his eyes, adopting a superior tone, "I'm not going to fall in love with you due to the _one time_ that we sleep in the same bed." 

Whizzer prickles at the condescension, "I know that. It's just..." He doesn't really know how to even articulate a rebuttal, so he tries honesty, "It matters to me, okay? Doesn't that mean anything?"

Whizzer doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't for Marvin to visibly soften and retract his hand, "Of course it does. Jesus, if you wanna leave, go ahead. I won't stop you." Whizzer kind of expected—no, kind of  _hoped_  for a fight. A fight that he was expecting—no,  _hoping_  to lose.

Whizzer puts on the rest of his clothes, weirdly wishing for Marvin to at least say  _something_. However, the man seems to have given up on convincing him and is actively trying to go to sleep, selfishly burying himself in the covers while Whizzer slips on his stylish but not necessarily warm clothes. As soon as he finishes getting dressed, he pauses on his way out of the bedroom, looking over his shoulder, "Bye, Marvin."

Marvin is silent, save for a few soft snores.

Rolling his eyes, Whizzer leaves and makes his way out of the apartment building, already feeling an anticipative chill under his skin. When he opens the door, the cold night air knocks the breath out of him. Reflexively, Whizzer steps back into the building and closes the door, crossing his arms in a vain attempt of sealing warmth in his body. The walk to his apartment is at least  _fifteen minutes_  long, and there's no guarantee that he'll be able to catch a cab until at least daybreak. Tentatively, Whizzer opens the door again, trying to get himself used to the frigid temperature. It doesn't help anything except build his case against going home.

_Ah, you know what? Fuck it._

He storms back to Marvin's apartment door, banging on it loud enough to wake up the people on the next floor. Within the next minute, he hears heavy footsteps from inside before Marvin opens the door, looking sleepy and annoyed,  _"What?"_

Whizzer brushes past him and starts stripping off his clothes, acting casual and flippant, "It's cold as shit out there."

He feels Marvin's gaze burn into the back of his skull as he closes the door, "You made a big fuss of not staying over and then dragged me out of bed so you could stay over anyway when you realized I was right?"

Whizzer doesn't respond and walks toward the bedroom, hearing Marvin reluctantly follow him. He crawls under the covers and shudders in relief. He turns to lie on his stomach and buries his face in Marvin's pillow, surprised by the fact that his scent brings a new strange sense of comfort. Distantly, he notices that Marvin has yet to join him, so he flips back around on his back and spies Marvin just watching him, the darkness of the room obscuring Whizzer's view of his expression.

"I'm too cold and tired to keep up appearances," Whizzer explains, holding out a hand in truce, "Let's go to sleep and just pretend it never happened in the morning. Deal?"

The honesty seems to give Marvin the courage to just sigh and slip underneath the covers, pressing his warm back against Whizzer's chest. Whizzer hums in appreciation and loops his arms around Marvin's torso, pressing them closer together and burying his cold face in his shoulder.

Marvin winces, muttering, "You're so cold."

Whizzer kisses his shoulder, effectively shutting him up, "Go to sleep, Marvin."

:: - ::

Whizzer was right when he said that it becomes a slippery slope. Soon after the seal is broken, he's spending more nights in Marvin's bed than anyone else's—and even his own, for that matter.

It's strange that of all the sexual things they've done to one another, it's sleeping in the same bed that truly makes Whizzer feel cheap and dirty. 

However, just when Whizzer tries to put up a fight, Marvin challenges him to make it a big deal. 

And it isn't a big deal.  _Really,_ it isn't. If he just keeps pretending that it isn't, of course.

And he knows when he's screwed because eventually Marvin stops even  _offering_. One night, when they're done screwing, Marvin helps clean up the mess and then rolls over to go to sleep—without so much as a half-hearted invitation. Even Whizzer forgets to mention going home as he pulls Marvin into his arms and closes his eyes.

It's when he's on the precipice of sleep that he remembers his  _rules_  and distantly has a moment of panic. However, the panic is soon mitigated because the bed is  _really, really_  comfortable and Marvin is  _really, really_ warm.

As Whizzer likes to see it, no one really makes rules unless they kinda want someone to break them.

:: - ::

The changes are so gradual and simultaneous, Whizzer doesn't even notice at first. For example, what  _began_  as impatiently waiting for Marvin to end his study sessions so he can blow him turns into Whizzer actually bringing his own books to study, which  _then_  evolves into them getting dinner after studying  _and then_  even staying the night after that. Gradually, random items of Whizzer's become commonplace at Marvin's apartment, to their friends' obvious confusion.

"When have you guys hung out here?" Cordelia questions after she comes across Whizzer's beloved copy of  _Dreamgirls_  on Marvin's bookcase, "Or, better question, when have you guys hung out  _ever_?" Of course, they could have played it off if this was the  _first_  time that someone had found an item obviously belonging to Whizzer at Marvin's apartment and not the  _twentieth_.

Marvin showcases those acting skills that he's always bragging out by just shrugging casually at the six pairs of eyes trained on him, "He comes over sometimes when we finish studying at the library."

"You  _study_  together now?" 

"I know," Whizzer plays into their confusion, joking, "You guys should start expecting a marriage proposal by the end of the week."

Marvin rolls his eyes, but he screws up by not tossing a hateful remark at him. However, Whizzer manages to save it by steering the conversation back to Charlotte, "So, what are you going to do about your project since your partner dropped?"

The ire in Charlotte's gaze ignites, and everyone forgets to question Marvin and Whizzer any further.

:: - ::

He doesn't know how and why the racquetball games start, but one half-hearted offer at a game once when both men were bored somehow leads to an establishment of a routine.

"You guys wanna hit up the arcade like the mature twenty-somethings that we are?" Mendel proposes one day as they all finish their lunch. Though everyone else shrugs in assent, Marvin and Whizzer glance at each other and hesitate. 

Trina's gaze narrows, sensing her boyfriend's reluctance, "You don't want to?"

"It's just—" Marvin shrinks when everyone's gaze turns to him, "Whizzer and I kind of have other plans."

"We play racquetball on Tuesdays and Thursdays." Whizzer informs them before correcting himself, "Well, more like I beat Marvin at racquetball on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Not every time." Marvin argues, "And you cheat, anyway."

"How is simply being better than you cheating?" Whizzer points out, cocking an eyebrow.

"You guys play racquetball?" Charlotte repeats, as if it's the most preposterous thing she's ever heard, "You two—Marvin and Whizzer— _electively_  spend time together  _regularly_  and... _play racquetball?"_

Everyone else seems just as horrified and confused, looking at the two men as if they had somehow started the Third World War.

"Jesus, if it's that big of a deal," Whizzer exclaims, rolling his eyes, "We'll just go to the arcade. I mean, I'll beat Marvin at Pac-Man just as easily."

"You can't verse people in Pac-Man." Marvin tells him, condescension evident in his voice.

"How does you knowing that make you sound better than me?" Whizzer asks, "Because to me, that sounds like you're just a bigger dork."

Marvin scoffs, "Says the guy whose favorite movie is  _Dreamgirls_."

"Fuck off.  _Beyoncé_  is in  _Dreamgirls."_

"Trust me, I know," Marvin groans, "You made me watch it."

"Don't let him fool you." Whizzer whispers loudly to Cordelia mockingly, "He totally cried like a bitch during it."

"Because of how  _horrible_  it was."

Mendel leans into Trina, "Am I the only one that thinks this just feels wrong?"

All the others immediately nod, much to Whizzer and Marvin's confusion and disgruntlement.

"What?" Whizzer demands, "I thought you guys always  _wanted_  us to get along."

"Well, we never thought that that would actually  _happen_." Trina points out. Suddenly, all eyes are trained on Marvin and Whizzer, as if they somehow  _owe them_  an explanation for becoming friendlier with one another.

"This is so stupid. Why are we even talking about this?" Marvin asks, forcing a laugh, "Let's just go to the arcade. I want to watch Cordelia humiliate some twelve-year-old at DDR."

It takes awhile before they all finally drop it and move on, and though the attention is off of him, Whizzer feels like he still needs to be painfully aware of each move his body makes. As if one quick glance at Trina will suddenly make her realize  _Oh shit, he's fucking my boyfriend._

It's  _stupid_. He's being  _stupid_.

Nevertheless, the anxiety follows him throughout the entire day.

:: - ::

Whizzer hates that he even notices it in the first place.

After all, Marvin had told him about it  _months ago._ It's a miracle he even  _remembers,_ given how fucking stupid and meaningless it is.

They're all lounging around Cordelia and Charlotte's apartment today since it's undeniably nicer and cleaner than everyone else's place. Cordelia and Mendel are in the kitchen cooking God only knows what while Whizzer and Charlotte are playing cards. Ignoring everyone else, Marvin is absorbed in his smart phone, playing that dumb game he's become obsessed with. Beside him on the couch is Trina, flipping through the channels with one hand while the other plays absently with Marvin's hair.

It's not like it bothers Whizzer. It's just  _distracting_ , for some reason.

"Whizzer,  _your turn_." Charlotte reminds him again, making Whizzer snap out of it, "What are you even looking at?" 

This draws Marvin's attention because the universe  _hates_  Whizzer apparently. He looks up from his phone and locks eyes with Whizzer, a bemused question in his gaze. Whizzer flickers his gaze meaningfully to the hand entangled in his hair, not really sure exactly  _what_  he wants Marvin's reaction to be. 

Marvin stills, immediately knowing what he means. He bats Trina's hand away and says gruffly, "Stop. It's annoying."

Trina tears her gaze off of the television screen, "It's never bothered you before."

Marvin doesn't really have an answer, so he doesn't respond. Instead, he gets up and migrates over to Whizzer and Charlotte, locking his phone and slipping it back in his pocket, "What are you playing?"

Whizzer looks down, attempting to hide the smile twitching on his face, "Rummy."

Marvin pulls up a seat, "Deal me in next game."

Whizzer looks over to Charlotte, but she's already watching him. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pulled tight together, like she's trying to access just what happened. It occurs to Whizzer that he didn't even  _try_  to be subtle.

Whizzer coughs and blindly makes his move, "Your turn."

That night, Whizzer comes home early from a disappointing fuck and can't sleep, tossing and turning on his shitty mattress and kinda wishing he was in Marvin's comfortable bed. However, he imagines Trina to be in his place right now, tangled in his bedsheets and threading her fingers through his lover's hair. Wildly, he wonders if she could smell his cologne on the pillow just as he sometimes breathes in and gets a faint whiff of her perfume.

And  _Jesus Christ,_ Whizzer  _cannot_  be  _pining_  right now. He refuses to let himself. It's  _ridiculous_. Whizzer does  _not_  chase after men—especially not closeted ones with pretty girlfriends and psychological complexes.

When he closes his eyes, he sees Charlotte's calculating gaze flickering between him and Marvin, the question slowly but surely forming in her mind. She must have noticed something earlier today, and if anyone is to actually connect the dots, it'll be  _Charlotte_. And if Charlotte finds out, she'll definitely tell Cordelia, and Cordelia will let it slip to Mendel because she's terrible at keeping secrets, and Mendel will tell Trina on the off chance it'll eventually get her to fuck him, and then he and Marvin are just  _fucked_.

Whizzer sees it all crashing down around him. His friendships—the only thing actually decent in his life—being ruined because he couldn't keep it in his pants. 

Cordelia is the one that he usually calls to calm him down when he gets like this—when it begins to hurt to even breathe and every shallow breath feels like a dagger to the chest. But if he calls her to cry over some  _guy_ , she'll ask what happened, and Whizzer might let it slip, and then  _everything is ruined_.

And he hates that he's shakily dialing Marvin's number without even thinking, just the  _thought_  of hearing his voice calming his jumping pulse. Marvin picks up on the third ring, and he sounds like he'd just been woken up, "Whizzer? What do you want? It's midnight."

"I think Charlotte knows," Whizzer explains, wincing at how shallow and small his voice is, "And if she doesn't, she'll find out and then she'll tell everyone, and they'll all choose you over me because you actually show that you give a damn sometimes at least, and I'll be  _all alone_ , and I'm sorry, Marvin, but I just don't want to do this anymore."

"Whizzer," Marvin is more alert now, and it's weird that his voice lacks all sense of malice and scorn, "Hey, hey, Baby, calm down. There's no use in getting worked up. You're just talking about all these  _hypotheticals_  when nothing has even happened yet. Did Charlotte say anything about it?"

Whizzer hesitates, "Well,  _no_ , but she didn't _have_ to. I saw that look on her face today. She knows _something_  is up." He runs a hand through his hair, steeling his voice, "We've should've been more careful. Why the fuck did we let them think we've become friends anyway?"

"It was better to say that than admit we were fucking?" 

"Don't patronize me, Marvin. I'm not in the fucking mood."

"Whizzer, it doesn't matter if they think we're friends," Marvin tells him, "It's a huge leap from sort-of friends that still fight all the time to they're screwing behind closed doors."

"Are we though?" Whizzer blurts out before he can smother the question, "Friends, I mean."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, as if Marvin wants to say what Whizzer wants to hear rather than the truth, "I mean...I'd like to think we're better off than we were freshmen year. What do you think?" 

Whizzer shrugs, "I don't know. I don't want us to be."

"Why not?"

"Because hate sex rarely leads to feelings," Whizzer explains, "I like hate sex. It's easier to classify. But once we become friends and stop having hate sex, we might start...It could become complicated."

"Are you falling in love with me?"

The question throws Whizzer for a loop, has him answering hysterically before even thinking about it, " _No_."

Marvin pauses for a beat too long, and when he answers, his voice is slightly off, "See? Then there's nothing to worry about."

Whizzer holds the phone closer to his ear, and though he doesn't really want this question answered, he has to ask, "Are you falling in love with me?"

Marvin's answer is less enthusiastic and quick, but he still answers, "No."

Whizzer nods, relief flooding his system, "Good. That's good." He pauses, "I thought Trina was supposed to stay the night."

"We had a fight," Marvin answers matter-of-factly, not sounding that torn up about it, "She keeps trying to play with my hair, and I apparently 'embarrassed' her when I told her to cut it out when we were in public."

"Just let her to do it. It doesn't bother me." Whizzer assures him, though they both know that that's a lie.

Marvin doesn't call him out on it and just hums, staying silent for a moment before asking, "So, we're okay? You're not going off the deep end anymore?"

"We still need to be more careful." Whizzer affirms, "Because if I have to choose between them and you...You won't like the answer."

"Bullshit," Marvin calls, "You already had the choice before we even started this thing, and _you chose me_. You chose the  _challenge,_ remember?"

"I can still change my mind," Whizzer points out, "Don't fuck with me, Marvin. I can still walk away at any time and I won't shed a single tear about it." Except Whizzer knows that that's a lie. He's just hoping that  _Marvin_  doesn't realize that.

"You're so  _mean_ , you know that?" Marvin remarks, "I feel sorry for the bastard that will actually fall for you one day."

Whizzer shrugs, "Me too."

There's a long pause, neither of them really wanting to end the call.

"So," Marvin says after awhile, his voice adopting a coy, huskier tone, "What are you wearing?"

And  _this_  is what Whizzer is willing to actually give Marvin. He won't hand over his heart, but he will give the man a good time.

:: - ::

"Achilles was totally gay!" Whizzer declares, waving his beer wildly in the air, "I mean, come on! You cannot seriously stand there and tell me he wasn’t tapping Patroclus’ ass on the daily.”

"Your stance would have more weight if I didn't already know that you think  _every_  historical and fictional figure is gay," Marvin informs him, rolling his eyes and adding firmly, "Believe it or not, a man can have a deep emotional bond with another man  _without_  it being sexual."

" _'Deep emotional bond'_? Jesus,  _now_  who sounds gay?" Whizzer chuckles, arching his eyebrow teasingly at Marvin's narrowed eyes.

"This is literally the  _stupidest_  fight." Cordelia complains with a groan.

"I disagree," Mendel asserts, "That fight they had last week about which shoe you should put on first  _was_  the stupidest."

"The left one," Marvin answers at the exact same time Whizzer claims, "Right one."

"Why does it  _always_  have to be a toga party, you know?" Trina wonders, trying to change the subject, "Why not a decades theme every once in awhile? That'd be fun."

"Oh please, have you  _seen_  the fashion sense in the seventies?" Whizzer scoffs, turning his nose up at the thought, "No thank you."

"This isn't much better," She argues, gesturing at each of their ensembles, "We're all wearing white bed sheets. How  _boring_  is that?"

 "Depends on how you wear them, Sweetheart." Whizzer points out, gesturing to his scandalously clad outfit that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, "Isn't that right, Marv?" Marvin jolts at the mention of his name, looking up from his beer to find both his girlfriend and lover staring at him impatiently. 

"Uh," He clears his throat, careful not to look too long at Whizzer's exposed skin, "No. Trina's right, definitely."

"Really?" Whizzer challenges, "What was she saying again?"

Marvin freezes, at a loss, before he finally rolls his eyes, "Who the fuck cares? Let's talk about something that actually  _matters."_

"The history on Toga parties is very interesting," Mendel says hurriedly, grabbing Trina's attention with a touch of her elbow, "It started in the 1950s at—"

"You look beautiful tonight, Trina," Marvin states suddenly with a smile, turning her to face him instead of Mendel, "A real Greek goddess."

"Thank you," Trina's voice is sweet and soft-spoken, but her smile is barbed, "It would mean a lot more coming from  _sober_  you, but I appreciate the rare compliment nonetheless."

Marvin's expression darkens, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means  _piss off,_  I was talking to someone." She turns back to Mendel, giving him an encouraging smile. Marvin looks almost ready to make a scene but at Charlotte’s warning look, he seems to think better of it, simply muttering to himself and storming away from the group. Whizzer doesn't have to idle long before his phone buzzes, a beckoning text from none other than Marvin.

He quickly pockets his phone and says, "Well, I'm going to get laid. I'll see the dream team later."

"Booty call?" Charlotte guesses with a smirk, gesturing to his cellphone, "I didn't know you picked up a regular. What's his name?" There’s an edge in her voice, as if she’s purposefully keeping her tone light in fear of it sounding like an interrogation. She’s probing for any piece of evidence to use against him—a weird pitch in voice, a shifting of gaze, a misspoken half-truth—but Whizzer refuses to make it easier for her.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Whizzer points out, compromising, "I can show you a picture of his dick though."

Charlotte laughs and quickly shakes her head, "No, go on ahead. I don't want to keep your dashing man waiting." As he mockingly salutes and leaves, he can feel her gaze burning the back of his head, a too-accurate suspicion formulating in the back of her mind. Albeit a little needlessly, Whizzer makes sure to lose Charlotte’s gaze before he goes up to the room that Marvin texted him about, pretending that Charlotte hasn’t rattled him as much as she actually has.

"Who knew Trina had claws?" Whizzer says as soon as he steps into the bedroom, "I'm proud of the kid." Marvin rolls his eyes and pats the spot on the bed next to him. 

"Use your words," Whizzer presses him, though he sits down beside him away, " _Romance_  me."

"Since when did you ever need to be  _romanced_  to take your pants off?" Marvin jokes lowly, pulling at the short strands of hair near Whizzer's neck.

"Calling me a whore? Marvin, you're terrible at this whole sweet-talking business." He slides a hand up Marvin's thigh, "Maybe I should get off with someone else here. I bet some other guy would at least  _smile_  at me." He starts to get up only to be pulled back down by Marvin.

"You look beautiful tonight, Whizzer," Marvin purrs mockingly, mimicking his earlier tone, "A real Greek goddess."

"Doesn't work on me neither, Sweetheart. Try again." Whizzer straddles Marvin's lap, running his hands up his chest.

"That robe looks good on you," Marvin says casually, already tugging it off, "It would look even better on the bedroom floor."

"Cheesy and unoriginal," Whizzer remarks, leaning in, "But I'll take it."

:: - ::

When they're finished, they quickly get redressed, knowing it's only a matter of time before the group starts wondering where both of them are.

"This is shit beer," Marvin comments, looking at the bottle carefully, "God, remember the last time we had this?"

At the strange question, Whizzer shakes his head, "No. Am I supposed to?"

"It was sophomore year," Marvin explains, watching his expression carefully, "We were at some Alpha Zeta Delta party, and you were pounding these back like juice packets."

"That sounds like every party," He points out, rolling his eyes, "What made this one different?"

"It was just us two in the flatbed of my truck," Marvin looks almost offended that Whizzer doesn't remember this obscure moment, "We were  _talking_  rather than fighting for once. It was nice. Jesus, how could you  _not_  remember?”

He continues to stare blankly at him, "I’m sorry? I mean, come on, Marv, it obviously wasn’t that important.”

"It was the first time I thought about kissing you." Marvin states flatly, pushing past him and leaving the room. And suddenly, that's when Whizzer is hit with a long-forgotten memory:

 

 _He'd gotten in a major fight with his father just hours before, a full-fledged screaming match that left his voice hoarse and heart bleeding (this was back when he and his dad actually still_ talked _). Taking privacy and solace in the back of Marvin's truck, Whizzer opens another bottle of this cheap-ass beer and wants to call the asshole back, scream at him to stop paying the fucking tuition then if he's so concerned about Whizzer ruining his own potential. He's so fucking tired of these weekly disappointed "talks," tired of those hollow materialistic gifts that his parents think allow them to treat him like shit. He takes another drink and contemplates getting laid tonight, finding an equally trashed boy and getting off in the back of this truck. Fuck, Marvin would be_ livid—

 _"What are_ you _doing?" Whizzer looks over and sees Marvin staring at him, obviously agitated._

_"Fuck off for a few minutes, okay? I'm lamenting about my concerned parents like a spoiled brat," Whizzer shrugs, "I'm sure you can relate."_

_Marvin smirks at him, "What, did they not get you a pony for Christmas?"_

_"They think I'm throwing away my future by deciding to pursue photography instead of business," He tells him briskly, "They want to stop putting me through college."_

_Marvin's face changes, all cruelty slipping from his features, "That's heavy."_

_"It's smart," Whizzer corrects flatly, his father's words spilling from his mouth, "A degree in photography is essentially worthless, especially in this economy. God, Whizzer, we're not wasting all this money so you can dick around and then move back into our basement when you finish pursuing your 'passion.' You're nineteen, for fuck's sake. Wake up; this is the_ real world _now." He stops suddenly, feeling stupid and embarrassed and worthless. After a beat of silence, Marvin climbs into the truck, sitting down next to him and stealing his beer._

 _"This taste like shit," Marvin comments after a pause, "And I'm young and supposed to think_ any _beer is good beer."_

_"It gets the job done."_

_Once again, they’re bathed in uncomfortable silence._

_"Whizzer, I'm in your introduction to photography," Marvin reminds him, like Whizzer could_ forget _when they scream at each other every other class, "And even_ I _can admit that you're really fucking good. Like, not even just magazine good—I'm talking your own exhibit in somewhere exotic like_ Paris _good."_

_"This is out of character for you," Whizzer remarks, looking at him, "In circumstances like this, I would have bet you’d kick me while I was down.”_

_"I'm not_ that _much of a prick." Marvin tells him, prompting Whizzer to scoff in disbelief._

_"Look, Mendel says everyone hates his parents," Marvin tries again after a lull of silence, "And he's studying to be a psychiatrist and taking these really hard classes. So, I mean, you're not alone by feeling this way. And hey, you’ll grow out of it eventually."_

_"They don't know I'm gay." Whizzer admits suddenly, confused himself as to why he even brings it up._

_Unexpectedly, Marvin laughs, "Really?_ How?"

 _"Yeah, I know." Whizzer chuckles a little before he adds somberly, "They're really religious, put me through a catholic school and everything." He pauses, "Marvin, I'm fucking terrified that I'll have to pretend to be someone I'm not so I don't lose the people I love. Get a job I hate, marry a girl I could never love—Fuck, I can't imagine doing that, y'know? Honestly, I don't care that they'll hate me. I_ won't _do that to myself."_

_Marvin seems taken aback by his honesty, his expression one that Whizzer has never seen on him before. Finally, he gathers his bearings and comforts with a pained smile, "You don't know for sure that they'll hate you. Hell, they might even surprise you."_

_He snorts, "Are you kidding? Coming from_ you,  _that's rich."_

 _"Whizzer, I don't hate you because you're_ gay,"  _Marvin declares incredulously, like the sheer thought of it_ baffles _him, "I hate you because you're a pain in my ass. I mean, come on, I know I'm a dick, but give me a little credit here."_

_At his surprising response, Whizzer laughs. He laughs and laughs until his sides start hurting and he's panting for air. He looks over at Marvin and finds the man watching him, his face desperate and hungry—but for what, Whizzer's too drunk and upset to try to figure out._

_Whizzer slaps the man on the back, breaking Marvin from his spell, "You're alright, Marvin. Fuck, sober me will hate me for saying it, but you're damn alright." And they stay like that for a little while longer, staring up at the stars in the night sky._

 

"You look well-fucked." Charlotte compliments as Whizzer joins the group again. He tries to catch eyes with Marvin, but the bastard won't look at him. Instead, he's got his arm around Trina, making up for being an ass to her by showering her in hollow compliments and attention. The sight makes his chest tighten.

"Eh, it was so-so," Whizzer tells Charlotte, glancing over at Marvin, "I've had better." Marvin's grip on Trina tightens, but he still refuses to spare him a glance. And Whizzer's trying to be  _romantic_  here, dammit.

"Hey, Marvin," He says, forcing the man to look at him, "You brought up some good points about the whole Achilles thing. You know," He pauses, putting emphasis on the words, "You're alright. Sober me will hate me for saying it, but you're  _damn_  alright."  _Yes, Asshole, I remember. You can stop sulking now._ Marvin suddenly smiles at him, honest and open and completely inappropriate in this group setting where they're supposed to still sort-of hate each other.

"Okay," Mendel says, looking back at Trina and Marvin, "Are you sure you guys still want to go? We only  _just_  got here."

"Trina's right. This party is shit," Marvin looks down at his girlfriend, smiling sweetly at her, "You wanna swing by and see if the drive-in is still showing that shitty movie you like?"

"Dressed like this?" She asks but then shrugs, "Well, I mean, we probably won't be the weirdest ones dressed there.”

As she talks, Marvin stares directly at Whizzer, apparently too trashed to remember the whole thing about being  _discrete_. When she begins tugging him away, he jerks back into reality, wrapping an arm around her waist and leading her to the door. 

As soon as they leave, Whizzer says, "I could go for another drink."

:: - ::

At the very edge of the lawn, right next to the edge of a thickly wooded area, Whizzer stretches out on the grass and looks up at the stars. Are they the same ones that they watched that night? He feels like Marvin would know, though he's kinda glad he's not around to ask him; he'd probably snicker in condescension and overly explain the answer to Whizzer like he was a five-year-old.

"Whizzer." He turns to find Charlotte watching him, her lips pressed and forehead creased.

He cocks an eyebrow at her, "Ready to go?"

She walks over and sits down next him, stealing his beer and taking a long sip. Whizzer knows just what she’s about to say before she even says it, "You need to stop."

"What, drinking?" He plays dumb, laughing, "Pot calling the kettle black, Doll. Which professor fed you the Kool-Aid of prohibition—"

"Whizzer, I know you're screwing Marvin," Her voice is quiet but firm, her gaze lowered but steady, "And I'm asking you to stop." At her declaration, all looseness and good humor is abruptly wrung out of Whizzer's body.  _Okay, so we’re actually going to talk about this._

Whizzer ponders the option of denying it—that's what Marvin would want him to do—but he knows Charlotte can read through any type of bullshit. So instead he responds briskly, "That's none of your business, Charlotte."

"That's why I'm not telling you; I'm  _asking_  you," She takes his hand delicately, "I've never judged your sexual life; that's not my place. But  _this_  affects me and Cordelia—"

Whizzer snorts, interjecting, "That's such an  _absorbed_  thing to claim—"

"Marvin and Trina are  _our friends,"_  She points out sharply, "They’re apart of our lives, just like you are. And I don't want to lose friends just because you were horny and wanted to prove some sort of  _point—“_

He scoffs, "That is  _not_  what I'm doing—"

"Then what  _are_  you doing, huh?" She demands, her penetrating stare pinning him in place, "Please, Whizzer,  _enlighten_   _me._ Because I  _want_  to believe you're not doing this just because you  _can."_ It's the way she says it—that disappointed, desperate tone that challenges Whizzer to be _better_. With a pang in his chest, he realizes that she sounds just like his father.

And because of that, Whizzer hardens his heart, ripping his hand away from her grasp and responding coldly, "Maybe I am." His words seem to shake her, but Charlotte is undeterred.

"Fine, maybe you are. Maybe you are the piece of shit that you like to pretend to be." She pauses, her voice growing soft, "But I've always liked to see the best in you."

Whizzer laughs, sharp and bitter, "There's your first mistake." He stands up, throwing his beer against a distant tree just to see it shatter, "I don't need you giving me shit for this. If you're pissed at me, alright, be pissed—Hell, yell at me until you're blue in the face. But don't you  _dare_  scold me like I'm fucking ten years old. I'm your  _friend,_ Charlotte, not your ward."

He goes to walk away, but her statement stops him, "I didn't know he meant that much to you."

"He means  _nothing_  to me." Whizzer declares firmly, suddenly desperate to convince her of the fact.

She throws up her hands, "Then find somebody else— _anybody else._ Just keep it out of our friend circle. Whizzer, I'm not just asking this for shits and giggles; this is for  _everyone's_  sake." She pauses and adds gently, "Especially Marvin's."

 _"Marvin?"_ He sneers, angry and disgusted, "So  _he's_  the innocent victim and  _I'm_  the dragon in this situation? How is  _that_  fair?"

"Because he means nothing to you," She throws his words back in his face, adding lowly, "And I looked at that man's face for one second in there and knew you meant a hell a lot more to him than that." He wants to deny it, tell her that she's romanticizing their arrangement and seeing something that isn't there. 

But he saw that look on Marvin's face, too. It was the face of a man looking up at the stars in the night sky and wondering if the drunk boy beside him wanted to kiss him, too.

"He'll get over it." He says quietly, utterly convinced. Love is passionate but fleeting, and it always dies. Always.

She sighs, standing up and putting a hand on his shoulder, "Whizzer, I'm asking you as a friend: put an end to it. You've had your fun. Now let him go before people get hurt more than they already have been."

And Whizzer knows she's right. He knows that this isn't a mere game anymore. Trina and Marvin are the kind of couple that get married right out of college, settle down with a couple of brats and reminisce about the good old days to distract themselves from their miserable present day lives. Whizzer invaded a life—no, a  _future_  that he doesn't belong in, and now that he's had his fun, it's time to let go and start fresh. He's done it plenty of times before, has went through so many lovers that he can't even recall all of them off the top of his head. Marvin is not any different, he's sure. And yet—

"It's not that easy," And his voice breaks, and suddenly he feels so very young and so very small.

Charlotte's eyes widen, like she's finally figured it out, " _Oh._ Sweetheart." She reaches out to touch his face, but he pulls away. 

"No, sorry, you're right." He nods, hardening his expression, "Better to end it before he gets too attached."

He walks away, not letting Charlotte say another word.

:: - :: 

The following evening, when Marvin calls him over, Whizzer has prepared a laughably impersonal yet direct speech in his mind. He'll say all that he needs to say, turn around, and then just walk away. And that'll be the end of it—of  _all_  of it. Marvin opens the door and smiles at him, but before he can get a word of greeting out, Whizzer starts talking and doesn't stop.

He manages to get through the whole spiel—about how they're just too different, this was fun while it lasted but the passion has died, it isn't fair to Trina, more bullshit that feels heavy and sick on his tongue—without looking directly at the man, keeping his voice monotone but firm. Marvin doesn't say a word of protest throughout the speech, silent and passive and so unlike himself that Whizzer feels sort of put off. This is a very anticlimactic ending to their torrid affair, and honestly, Whizzer expected more from the temperamental man.

"—So, this thing between us is over now. I'll make myself scarce in places where I know you'll be for a few weeks so you can get over it quicker. And um, it was nice screwing you, I guess?" He waits for Marvin's response, even though he promised himself he would flee the moment he was finished.

Marvin just nods, his face carefully blank. He opens his door wider, ignoring everything he just said by beckoning calmly, "Come inside, and we can talk about it."

"I know what you're trying to do," Whizzer informs him exasperatedly, "But I'm serious, Marv. This thing stops now before— _don't touch me."_ Whizzer grabs Marvin's hand clamped around his wrist and shoves him back. Transfixed, he watches as Marvin gives him a trying look and reaches for him again, slower this time and maintaining steady eye-contact. 

Whizzer groans but doesn't pull away when Marvin wraps his arms around his waist, "Marvin,  _cut it out_. Can't you take  _no_  for an answer?"

"Tell me no," Marvin challenges with a smug expression, "Tell me no, and I'll stop. I'll stop bothering you—hell, I won't even  _look_  in your direction ever again. But I want to hear you  _say it_ —in your own words and not in some bullshit speech about morals that I  _know_  you don't believe in." At Whizzer’s pause, he leans in and taunts in his ear, "Go on then.  _Do it."_

Whizzer opens his mouth, but the words cling to the back of his throat.

He pushes Marvin away and stares at him, waiting for his next move. 

The man just smiles knowingly and beckons again, "Come inside." And Whizzer lets himself be tugged by the wrist inside the apartment, lets the man  _take_  and  _take_  even though Whizzer has nothing to give.

"Passion dies eventually," Whizzer tells him as they lay breathless in the aftermath, "Just because it's not today doesn't mean it can't be tomorrow."

Marvin shrugs, pulling Whizzer into his arms, "We'll deal with it tomorrow then." And it seems so simple right now between the two of them, but Charlotte's words of warning still echo in the back of his mind.

Whizzer admits quietly, "Marvin, that night...I think I wanted to kiss you, too." Marvin’s hold on him tightens, and his smile is blinding in the pale lighting of the room. And Whizzer knows that he is devouring this man and his bleeding heart, but he doesn’t think he could stop even if he  _tried._

He wonders if this is what love feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling like my pacing has been a little weird for this story so far. Hopefully you don't feel the same, but if you recognize it too, sorry about that. I feel like I'm stringing together moments rather than a cohesive, fully fleshed out story. After this chapter, however, Stuff starts happening, so I'll stop skipping around in time so much.  
> Because I couldn't find an organic way to include it, at this point, Marvin and Whizzer are about five-to-six months into their 'relationship.'  
> The next chapter is entitled in my notes as simply: Trina.  
> I'm actually really excited about it.


	5. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you even feel guilty about doing this to her?"
> 
> "Do you?" Marvin throws back sharply, swinging his legs off the bed and turning his back to him.
> 
> Whizzer has to think about it, "Not really."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this early, yay! I've never been so excited for a chapter in this story more than I am for this one. I really love Trina a lot, and I just want her to be happy.  
> (Also, kudos to anyone who spots those In Trousers references in here).

Whizzer looks at Marvin and thinks very seriously of punching him in the face.

“I mean, _Jesus Christ_ ,” Marvin continues to fuss, his voice as hard as it is loud, “Why the fuck do you even _care_? I bet you get on your knees at worse places. Do you bitch then too or can you not talk with whatever dick you have in your mouth at the moment?”

“It’s called not being a _slob_ ,” Whizzer snaps, the adrenaline bursting in his veins, “You know, for someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth, you sure live like you were raised in a shit creek!”

“Oh well, I’m sorry that I _disgust_ you so much,” Marvin grits out, mimicking his tone, “You know, for someone who fucks any guy that buys him a drink, you sure act like you have standards!”

Whizzer scoffs, his anger radiating off him like waves, “For someone who swears he’s not a fag, you sure take it up the ass like one!” The heat off of that barb seems to fly across the room and slap him in the face, causing Marvin to redden even further and throw his shoulders back. Whizzer feels dizzy with the satisfaction, can practically taste the blood in his mouth and wants _more_.

“For someone who likes to brag that he’s nothing like Trina,” Marvin says, his voice softer but no less cruel, “You sure bitch and whine like her.” He scoffs, cashing in on the hurt that briefly flickered on Whizzer’s face, “Hell, maybe I should kick you out and call her over instead. She’s not the best fuck, but she gives better head than _you_.”

“Sounds like a terrific idea,” Whizzer says icily, pulling his coat back on and heading towards the door, “Remind her that a spitter is a quitter.” Marvin crosses the room and grabs Whizzer’s wrist, turning him around and pulling him into a kiss. The fire growls and crackles within him, and Marvin’s mouth—whether it’s spewing hurtful insults or roughly pressing against Whizzer’s own—is kerosene. Whizzer forces Marvin’s mouth open wider and licks deep into his throat, redirecting his anger into barely contained passion. Marvin buckles under the force of the kiss, sighing almost dreamily and raking his trembling fingers through Whizzer’s hair.

And Whizzer could pull Marvin’s pants down and just _take_ , but today he’s feeling like making a point.

Whizzer shoves Marvin off of him and wipes his lips on his sleeve, feigning disgust, “You kiss like a pig, too.”

He storms over to the door and wrenches it open, smirking when he hears Marvin ask dazedly, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Doesn’t concern you,” Whizzer bites back, looking over his shoulder and saying snidely, “You might as well call Trina over. You know, considering how much _better_ she is.” He slams the door behind him, rattling the frame and his ribcage.

In case Marvin is feeling a flair for the dramatics (which is always), Whizzer stomps quickly to the elevator, pressing the close doors button heatedly. Once safely inside, he looks down at his crotch and frowns, hoping that maybe he can just tug his coat lower and no one will notice.

Fuck it. It’s all Marvin’s fault anyway.

That isn’t to say Whizzer wasn’t itching for a fight himself. Actually, it’d be right to implore that Whizzer even picked this one _deliberately_ , hungry to see Marvin scowl and fume and make an ass out of himself.

Now, he didn’t anticipate to _leave_. That’s just ruining a potential afternoon. However, lines in the sand have to be drawn some time or another. Whizzer knows that Marvin will cave eventually and call him up. He just has to play it off and _wait_.

But, for all his virtues, Whizzer can be a very impatient man.

:: - ::

On his way over to Cordelia and Charlotte’s, Whizzer feels a faint pang of hunger and is reminded that he and Marvin had ordered Chinese before their most recent brawl. _That dick better not touch my crab rangoon,_ Whizzer thinks spitefully to himself and then catches sight of a cheap seafood diner. Realizing that he has some cash on him, Whizzer makes a detour and walks in, almost walking straight back out when he sees a familiar face.

“Whizzer?” Trina calls from her booth, her brow pinched together. _Guess he chickened out of calling her._ Well, it’s not like Whizzer is surprised.

Accidentally making eye contact with her, Whizzer can’t just _say nothing and walk away_. Trina isn’t on his list of favorite people, but she’s certainly no _stranger_. Sucking on his teeth and hating everything, Whizzer smiles meekly and walks over to her booth, surprised in the fact that Mendel isn’t with her. The wiry nerd—despite professing to be Marvin’s best friend—always seems to be up Trina’s ass, salivating all over himself and shaking like a bitch in heat.

“Hey.” He greets, an awkward edge in his voice.

“I thought you and Marvin were hanging out today,” Trina points out, and Whizzer is shocked that Marvin had told her that much, “Is he here with you?”

“He’s in a real pissy mood,” Whizzer admits, not even bothering to hide his annoyance, “Had to leave and take a breather before I ended up with a fist around his throat.”

Trina huffs a laugh, as if he just said some off-color joke rather than a threat to bodily harm her boyfriend, “I know the feeling. He really likes to fight—even more than he likes sex.” _With you at least,_ Whizzer thinks but then berates himself for being cruel to her. After all, it’s not _her_ fault that she’s with a closeted queer.

Whizzer smiles and darts his eyes away, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, “Well, I should leave you alone. I’m trying to get a quick bite to eat and then head on over to Charlotte and Cordelia’s place.”

“I haven’t ordered yet,” Trina tells him, motioning to the empty booth seat across from her, “Sit with me.”

Whizzer thinks that being kicked in the teeth would be more enjoyable.

However, he can’t just say _no_ without a real reason. That’s just _rude_ , and though Whizzer doesn’t usually pull punches, he’s not going to be a dick to someone who’s never been anything but kind to him. Whizzer forces a smile and tentatively slips into the seat across from her. She seems surprised by his acceptance, her own polite smile adopting a softer, _realer_ edge to it.

She hands him the menu, “I already know what I want.” Whizzer accepts it and starts analyzing it, trying to distract himself from Trina’s obvious laser-focus on him.

“You know what’s funny?” Trina remarks after a long pause, “We’ve known each other for—what, three years now? And I think this is the first time that we’ve ever been one-on-one.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve always been Marvin’s girlfriend,” Whizzer points out, cutting his eyes up at her, “And I’ve always kinda hated the guy.”

“Not recently.” She counters, and it doesn’t sound like she’s trying to dig or lead him into a trap. It’s simply an observation, its innocence almost laughable.

Whizzer quirks a half-smile, “Well, _sometimes_ he can be alright. Mostly though, he’s still an asshole.”

“Really?” Trina exclaims wryly, matching his expression, “I’ve never noticed.”

Whizzer breathes out a faint chuckle, her honesty somewhat refreshing. Trina smiles, seemingly pleased that she elicited such a reaction.

Whizzer closes the menu just as the waitress comes over. She looks between the two of them and smiles politely, looking at Trina, “What can I get you?”

“Medium size of oysters,” Trina requests, “And can I get a serving of vinegar mignonette with that? And a large diet coke.”

The waitress nods, flickering her gaze over to Whizzer, “And for your boyfriend?”

Trina sputters but Whizzer only grins at the implication, “Lobster claws and a sweet tea.”

Right after the waitress leaves, Whizzer and Trina make eye contact before dissolving into immature giggles, the idea of dating one another so hysterical that they can barely catch their breaths.

“Hey, quit laughing,” Whizzer says, pretending to be affronted, “I’d be a great boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah, I can totally get behind having a gay boyfriend,” Trina agrees jokingly, “We don’t have sex, but at least we shop together.”

Whizzer lets his snickers die down, “Jesus Christ.”

Trina smiles at him, “So, I think I heard Marv say you’re taking Mr. Price’s class this semester, right?”

“Don’t say his name again,” Whizzer requests with a groan, “I have a strong theory that he works like Beetlejuice.”

“Believe me, I know,” Trina assures, “He failed me on a presentation once for saying ‘um’ three times.”

“His rubric for that kind of shit is the bane of my existence. A couple weeks ago, before class, he was…”

Conversation flows easily between the two throughout the meal, only interrupted when Whizzer—whose phone has been lighting up with unanswered texts for the past ten minutes—gets a phone call. His phone resting face up on the table, Trina surely doesn’t miss Marvin’s name lighting up on his screen, even though Whizzer is quick to send it to voicemail. Five minutes later, Trina’s phone rings, and both of them know who it is before she even fishes it out of her purse. She looks at the phone for a long moment, her hand twitching to answer it but the heat of Whizzer’s gaze freezing her action.

Whizzer shrugs, letting her off the hook, “Answer it.”

She presses the button and holds the phone to her ear, ice quickly settling over her features, “What is it, Marvin?”

The voice on the other line is muffled, so Whizzer only hears Trina’s side of the conversation.

Trina glances at Whizzer, making eye contact, “I can’t right now. I’m busy.” Whatever he replies, she soon cuts him off, saying curtly, “I’m hanging out with Whizzer.”

 _“You’re doing what?”_ Whizzer hears Marvin this time, his voice thundering through the other line. Without any further explanation, Trina hangs up, pointedly muting her phone and depositing it in her purse.

Whizzer has never liked Trina more than in this exact moment.

“Anyway,” Trina begins again, feigning casualness with a smug grin, “Like I was saying, this weird man comes up to me when I’m in the middle of my shift…” There’s something different now when they hold each other’s gazes, and it takes a moment for Whizzer to realize what it is.

_Solidarity._

Whizzer wonders if she knows just how deep their connection and similarities truly reside.

:: - ::

“Let’s go somewhere together,” Trina requests as they each pay their separate checks and leave the diner, “Just the two of us. You know, make a day out of it.”

Whizzer shrugs, the notion not sounding completely abhorrent anymore, “Where would we go? It’s a little too early for us to hit up bars.” He cringes suddenly, “Jesus, I sound like such an old guy.”

Trina argues, “You sound like someone who won’t have a failing liver at age thirty.” She sighs, mulling their options over, “The library?”

Whizzer is hit with the memory of Marvin sucking him off in the dusty, underused _how-to_ section.

“No.”

“The movies?”

Whizzer is hit with the memory of Marvin sucking him off in the back row of the theatre.

“No.”

“Uh…Walmart?”

Jesus, where _hasn’t_ Marvin blown him in this town?

“Let’s go to the park,” Whizzer suggests, tucking his hands in his pockets, “There, we can ignore the beautiful nature around us and stare blankly down at our screens like millennial zombies.”

Trina laughs a little, “Okay. Deal.”

“So,” Whizzer prompts as they lazily make their way, “Can I ask a personal question?”

“When have you ever respected boundaries?” Trina remarks playfully before rolling her eyes and relenting, “But sure.”

“Why haven’t you dumped Marvin yet?”

Trina stills, her playful voice adopting a more careful, controlled tone, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.” Whizzer scoffs, trying to diffuse the rising defense wall she’s built around herself, “You guys fight _constantly_ , you don’t even _live together_ after dating steadily for years, you look _miserable_ when you’re with him—“

“First of all, Marvin fights with _everyone_ ,” Trina says defensively, “He’s just a prickly person. But not a lot of people see him when he’s sweet. He can be very kind—a lot of the time actually.” Whizzer already knows this about him; he’s just surprised that Trina does, too.

“We don’t live together because we’re not married yet,” Trina continues, “Our parents would shit their pants. They still like to think that we’re virgins.” Trina scoffs suddenly, “Marvin may hate his mom and dad, but he would never cross them—even for me. He’s really weird about them.” It’s the way that she talks that unsettles Whizzer—the knowing lilt in her voice when she talks about Marvin. Whizzer has always liked to trivialize their relationship—to pretend that Trina is a nameless, robotic mannequin that Marvin simply dresses up and shows off—but it’s ignorant to believe that they aren’t close in at least some ways. Marvin hasn’t shared all of himself with Trina, but he’s given her breadcrumbs of himself—his past, his insecurities—to soothe her desire for any intimacy at all. Trina knows things about Marvin that he himself would have never told Whizzer.

He’s torn on how that makes him feel.

“And I’m not miserable when I’m with him,” Trina declares firmly, her voice hard and unbending as steel, “Sometimes it’s hard, but I _do_ love him. And he loves me. _He does.”_ She seems to be trying to convince both of them of that last “fact.”

Whizzer looks down, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“We’re happy together.” Trina keeps asserting, growing more desperate, “We’re going to get married, as soon as we’re over with school.”

Whizzer’s heart skips, “Are you?”

“We’ve been together for three years,” Trina reminds him, a weird sense of tiredness and defeat in her voice, “It’s a given. Him proposing is simply semantics at this point.”

“Yeah,” Whizzer wonders where _he_ fits into this portrait of a family, “I guess it is.”

They stay more or less silent for the rest of the journey.

:: - ::

They’re sitting at a park bench and absently watching kids play on a swing set and dogs shitting in the bushes. They talk and talk about nothing that really matters, but the hum of organic conversation is soothing. Whizzer has almost lost in the chill that he’d developed earlier when Trina randomly blurts out, “Marvin doesn’t want kids.” It doesn’t take long to connect this line of thinking to the way her gaze has followed the children playing in the park.

Whizzer doesn’t find that hard to believe, “What about you?”

Trina hesitates, “I don’t know. I think I would be a terrible mother. But. Sometimes I think I would really love it, you know?”

Whizzer finds himself shrugging, “I think you’d be a good mom.”

Trina smiles, “Thank you. That means—a lot.”

“Marvin doesn’t like the thought of sharing,” Whizzer tells her, as if she doesn’t already know, “That’s why he doesn’t want kids. He’s very needy—of _everyone_.”

Trina scoffs, “Trust me, I know. You think being friends with him is bad? Just try dating the bastard.”

Whizzer is thankful that she’s too busy looking at a little toddler in pigtails to gauge his expression. He responds after a beat, his voice sounding stilted even to himself, “No, I don’t think I ever wanna do that.”

He’s suddenly struck by a thought, and though he realizes he really shouldn’t, he asks, "How did you meet Marvin anyway?" He was afraid that she’d lash out at him like she did earlier, but this time she doesn’t seem too offended by the question.

Trina cracks a small wry smile, "This is the part where I lie and say we did that cliché thing of running into each other in the hallway and our books scattered dramatically all over the floor." She laughs a little, admitting, "I was coming out of the ladies' restroom just as he was leaving the men's at the library. He was going my way and I thought he was really cute, so I made stilted small talk with him and laughed at his awful jokes."

Her eyes mist over, a fond sense of wistfulness coating her voice, "We ended up talking for like four of five hours after that, even went to this shitty twenty-four hour diner when the library closed. He talked more, of course. I just listened, mesmerized by how he seemed to command every room he stepped in and the way he talked with his hands." She pauses and adds quietly, "And I wanted him to love me— _desperately_ —so I changed my personality a little just so we could fit perfectly together." She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, "It sounds so stupid to admit it out loud. But I tend to always do that; I warp my own qualities so I can be whoever the other person wants me to be."

Whizzer doesn’t really know what to say, so he stays silent and lets her wondrously but also bitterly reminisce. When he thinks that the moment has passed, he opens his mouth to change the subject, but she cuts him off before he even has a chance to speak.

"I think he's cheating on me." Her words are blunt, emotionless. But when Whizzer looks in her eyes, he sees the anger and devastation that lies within her.

At her declaration, Whizzer very nearly flinches, but he maintains a straight face and asks casually, "What makes you think that?"

"I have no tangible evidence," She confides, causing Whizzer to relax in relief, "But it's just the way he acts, y'know? Sure, he talks to me, and touches me, and kisses me, but there's something in that faraway look in his eye when he thinks that I’m not looking—it makes me wonder if he's thinking of someone else."

She sighs bitterly, negativity clouding her face and twisting her features, “It’s probably some pretentious bitch in one of his asshole classes. He’s gotta have her _wrapped around his little finger_. He’s actually quite good at that—at making you believe that you’re the only one who understands him. It’s part of his _charm_.” She cuts herself off and seems to be gathering up strength, bowing her head and taking in deep breaths.

She looks up and traps Whizzer in her gaze, her vulnerability palpable in her eyes and speech, “Please…be honest with me?”

Whizzer tries to breathe normally, “Of course.”

“Is he fucking someone else? Were you two really supposed to hang out today, or were you just covering for him and then got caught at the diner?”

Whizzer doesn’t know which question to answer: one that will get him off the hook or one that will keep her on Marvin’s hook.

He makes a careful decision, one that will probably keep him up tonight.

Whizzer shifts in his seat to face her and holds her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes and willing her to believe the words that spew from his lips, “Trina, I’ve gotten to know Marvin a lot over these months. And I _know_ that he’s an asshole sometimes and doesn’t listen and that you do deserve better. But I also know that there is no other woman _. You_ are the only one. And I know this for a _fact_. I wouldn’t lie for him.” It’s the truth, after all. But it’s a twisted truth, one that manipulates her wording and uses it against her.

Trina laughs hysterically a little, shuddering in relief. A few tears slip from her shining eyes, and he brushes them away with his sleeve. And he feels like the biggest piece of shit on the face of the planet.

“I can see why Marvin hates you,” Trina tells him with a small smile, explaining, “You’re a good guy, Whizzer.”

“Don’t,” Whizzer lets go of her and shifts away, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I think Marvin admires you,” But Trina won’t shut up, even though her words are literally gutting him, “He hates you because you’re not what he thinks you’re supposed to be, but I think that he kinda likes that you surprise him.” She laughs a little, “Is it bad that I’m so fucking glad you’re not a woman? Jesus, I could really see him falling in love with someone like you.”

Whizzer rarely feels guilt over his actions, but when he does, it’s like a fucking evisceration. Trina smiles and watches the children play while Whizzer shifts in his seat and tries to keep himself from spilling his guts for the entire world to see.

:: - ::

As soon as they leave the park and go their separate ways, Whizzer goes back to Marvin because _of course he does_.

Marvin opens the door without hesitation, obviously geared up for a drawn out, rotten, dirty fight. But he stops mid-breath once he gets a look at Whizzer’s face and closes his mouth, letting Whizzer inside the apartment without a word of insult.

Whizzer starts pacing around the apartment, still wanting to run but knowing that he really has nowhere else to go.

“I was worried,” Marvin breaks the tension, closing the door and tentatively walking towards him, “You wouldn’t answer me.”

Whizzer latches onto the admission, exclaiming scathingly, “What, were you scared we were gonna _fuck_? Jesus, Marvin, _you’re_ the one pretending to be straight. _Not me_.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Marvin comes up behind him, reaching out to take hold of his hand, “Did Trina do something?”

“She’s in love with you,” Whizzer announces, like it’s the worst thing in the universe, “Or she thinks she is, at least.”

Marvin blinks, the news not affecting him, “Well, _yeah_.”

“Jesus Christ,” Whizzer says, his stomach dropping, “And I thought I was the only heartless one.”

“What do you want me to say?” Marvin demands, pulling Whizzer closer and rubbing calming circles into his skin, “Why are you so mad at _me_ , huh? You already know that she means nothing to me. I’ve always been honest with you, Whizzer—more than I have been with _anyone._ Ever.”

 _“He’s actually quite good at that,”_ Trina’s words suddenly come back to haunt him, _“At making you believe that you’re the only one who understands him. It’s part of his charm.”_

Whizzer is a terrible person. He’s always known this, deep down, but sometimes it hurts to be reminded of the fact.

He doesn’t really know what he was planning to accomplish by coming here. To give Trina some justice? To prove his own decency somehow? But that would require Whizzer to be _selfless_.

Whizzer kisses Marvin then, ending wherever that conversation was heading. He pushes Marvin back onto the couch and _devours_ him, turning the man into a quivering puddle of shuddering sighs and moans.

Whizzer keeps having to make a _choice_. But, time and time again, he refuses to make the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whizzer is a selfish person who makes terrible decisions. But that literally describes all of humanity, so cut him some slack, okay?


	6. Breadcrumbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at 10:00pm last night after I'd gotten home and thought that I might as well post it now.

"So?" Whizzer prompts anxiously, narrowing his eyes at Marvin across the kitchen table and trying to gauge his reaction, "How is it?"

His mouth moving slowly and robotically around the food, Marvin forces a smile and nods, "It's good."

Whizzer feels himself deflate, "You hate it."

Marvin hurriedly swallows, failing to hide the distasteful twist of his encouraging smile, "No, I don't. It's  _good_ , Whizzer." He relents when Whizzer still remains unconvinced, "Okay, so maybe it just needs a little more salt. And spice. And flavor."

Whizzer prods at his own plate with his fork, "It can't be that bad."

He takes a bite and immediately spits it into his napkin.

"Jesus Christ,  _you_   _swallowed that_?" Whizzer exclaims, glancing up at Marvin, "You've earned a very enthusiastic blowjob, my friend."

Marvin straightens in his seat, surprise and excitement in his face, "When?"

Whizzer takes a big swig of his beer and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, failing to completely get the taste out of his mouth. He stands up and walks over to Marvin in his chair, dropping to his knees, "Right now. Even jizz tastes better than that shit." 

Marvin's hands reflexively thread through his hair, "You know, maybe you should cook more often. I like this."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "Wow, closeted  _and_  funny. I hit the jackpot."

"Wow," Marvin mimics dryly, rubbing the strands of hair between his fingers, "Pretty  _and_  mean. I hit the jackpot."

Whizzer looks up at him from under his eyelashes, teasing demurely, "You really think I'm pretty?"

Marvin's eyes flicker pointedly at his crotch, "You have to ask that?"

Whizzer goes down on him, and they kinda stop talking after that.

:: - ::

Twenty minutes later, they're sprawled on the couch watching Seinfeld reruns, Whizzer's body tucked into the other's side while Marvin's arm is thrown protectively over his shoulder.

"How'd your practice for the final go?" Whizzer asks, trying not to be offended when Marvin looks surprised that he remembered.

"Got an eighty-three," Marvin tells him, obvious in his disappointment, "I should've done better. My mom's gonna bitch at me for an hour when I tell her."

"Tell her to go fuck herself," Whizzer shrugs, settling his head on Marvin's shoulder, "An eighty-three is great. Much better that I've ever gotten."

"That doesn't make me feel better," Marvin admits, earning a smack on the chest, "But thanks anyway. So, did you manage to finish your portfolio?"

Whizzer groans, "Please, don't remind me. Mr. Total-Dick-Face rejected my submission again. Told me he wants something  _raw_  and with  _feeling_."

"Can I do anything to help?" Marvin offers, "Money, time...my amazing penis?"

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "No, I just need to get the perfect shot, I guess. It'll come. I just need to have a camera on me at all times so I'll be ready whenever it does."

"Well, if you're looking for something raw," Marvin tells him, "I haven't thrown away that meatloaf you cooked."

"Good one. I'll never get tired of those jokes."

Whizzer buries himself deeper into Marvin's side, closing his eyes and letting the stress of asshole teachers and impending graduation fade away. He hadn't realized that he fell asleep until Marvin gently shakes his shoulders, "Hey, you up?"

Whizzer frowns petulantly, cracking an eye open, "I am now."

"Trina texted me. She and Mendel are coming over to hang out."  _Please leave before they show up_  is unspoken but apparent nevertheless.

Whizzer rouses himself awake and stretches, wincing at the crick in his neck and stitch in his belly, "You don't make a very comfortable bed." Whizzer blames what he does next on being delirious from just having woken up.

He absently plants a chaste kiss on Marvin's lips, a token of farewell, "Call me later."

Whizzer doesn't  _do_  that sort of thing. He rarely even kisses Marvin unless he's trying to get into his pants or shut him up. Whizzer doesn't actively participate in  _absent affection,_ much less prompt it himself.

Whizzer realizes what he's done immediately but decides to play it off, zipping his pants up and fixing his hair in the hallway mirror, "Or don't. I don't give a shit." 

Whizzer opens the door, but Marvin speaks, "Hey, Whizzer..."

"Marvin, it didn't mean—"

"Will you come to my play?" Whizzer shuts the door, turning to look at him.

"You're in a play?" He repeats, "Since when?"

Marvin shrugs, getting off the couch and rubbing the back of his neck, "I took your advice and auditioned for one. Didn't get the lead, but beggars can't be choosers." He walks over to the pile of clothes next to his door and gets some flier from his coat, "It, uh, premieres next Saturday. You know, at the theater you suggested."

"You actually listened to me?" Whizzer says rather than take the flier from Marvin's hand.

Marvin shrugs, "Wasn't crap advice, after all. It helps relieve the stress, even though it made me get an eighty-three on my practice final." He shakes the flier in his hand pointedly, so Whizzer gingerly picks it up. The flier is crappily made–with  _stock photos_  and  _word art_.

"Have you asked Cordelia and Charlotte yet?" Whizzer asks, "Or do you want me to—"

"No one else knows—about  _any_  of it," Marvin interjects, serious and sincere, "I just want it to be you."

Whizzer blinks, "Why?" In response, Marvin gives him a look, one that Whizzer doesn't want to decode. 

He seems miffed at Whizzer's stunned reaction, so he rolls his eyes and says gruffly, "Look, you don't have to—"

Whizzer stuffs the flier into his coat before Marvin can grab it back, saying curtly, "I'll see if I can swing by."

They stare at each other awkwardly.

Whizzer looks away first, turning and pulling the door open again, "See you whenever."

:: - ::

The next day, Whizzer and Cordelia are getting lunch before their next class, and after three attempts at redirecting Whizzer's wavering attention, she demands, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Whizzer says too quickly, stuffing his face with his pulled pork sandwich so he won't blurt out anything else. 

"You're being weird," Cordelia remarks, watching him carefully, "Is this about Mr. Total-Dick-Face? Because it is completely unfair that he's making you dance around like this so close to graduation. I swear, just say the word, and I'll—"

"It's about a guy, alright?" Whizzer relents, hoping his tone makes it obvious that that will be all that is said on the matter, "Anyway, what are—"

"No, no, no," Cordelia shushes him, her eyes wide, "You— _Whizzer Brown_ —are telling me that you're being fucked up over a guy?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Whizzer says sharply, "It's... _complicated_."

"Feelings are always complicated," Cordelia informs him, smirking a little as she adds, " _Love_  is compli—"

"I don't _love_ him,"Whizzer scoffs hurriedly, the words shooting out of his mouth like firecrackers, "How could I love someone like  _that_? He's a total prick! I mean,  _sure_ , he has a nice face and all, and he makes me laugh sometimes, and he lets me stay the night when it's really cold and lets me play with his hair, and he eats my shit cooking and pretends to like it, and he asks about my day and my shitty teachers, and he tells me things that he doesn't tell anybody else, and  _I think he's in love with me, 'Delia."_

Cordelia blinks, taken aback. Finally, she says, "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is," He assures her, "It's the worst thing he could have ever done to me."

"Whizzer, Sweetheart," She takes hold of his hands, stalling their trembling, "It's okay. You don't have to be so scared."

"I'm not  _scared_ ," Whizzer argues, like a nine-year-old, "I'm  _worried_. About him."

"Why?"

"He's taking my crappy advice and letting me kiss him randomly and throwing his life away," Whizzer exclaims, "Everything he worked so hard for  _his entire life_ , and he's unravelling it all.  _Because of me_. I don't want that shit on my conscious."

"You're being a bit dramatic, Honey." She levels him with a look, "How long has this been a thing?"

"Oh, I don't know," He tries to do the math, "About—six months?"

"And how come this is the first I'm hearing of this?" Cordelia demands playfully, an edge of seriousness in her voice.

"I told you. It's complicated." 

"Have you told him how you feel?"

Whizzer recoils, "Why would I do that?"

"I have no idea," Cordelia says dryly, "Maybe because you're crying over him in the middle of an Arby's."

"I'm  _not_  crying," Whizzer shifts in his seat, "I shouldn't have even told you about any of this. It's just going to make it worse."

"Do I know him?"

Whizzer's heart stops.

"No," Whizzer lies, "He's in my photography class."

"So he's in love with you," Cordelia starts to sum up, her brow pinching together, "And he's taking your advice and ruining his life...How?"

"He's in the closet." Whizzer admits, "Has a girlfriend and everything. They're gonna get  _married_  some day."

"Does he want to come out?"

Whizzer thinks about this, eventually deciding, "No, I don't think he does. He wants to keep being straight and sleeping with me. He's trying to have it _all_ …but let's just be realistic about this: he's going to have to make a choice eventually."

"And what if he chooses you?"

"He won't choose me," Whizzer declares, adding softer, "And I don't want him to."

"You wanna know what I think?" Cordelia asks after a long pause.

"Not really, but you're going to tell me anyway."

"I think that you and this guy  _really_  like each other, but you're scared to let anything good happen in your life because—Shut up, don't interrupt me—you feel like you don't _deserve_ it.

"But you deserve to be _happy_ , Whizzer." She smiles at him, "Don't worry about his choices because they are  _his_  to make. Just—let it run its course. And even if it does go to shit, at least you can say that you enjoyed the ride."

"This is terrible advice," He points out, "You're telling me to fuck all consequences of my actions and do whatever the hell I want?"

"That's what I've been doing ever since I came out of the closet," Cordelia says, shrugging, "And I still sorta have my shit together."

Whizzer wonders if she would change her tune of  _Follow Your Heart_  if she knew that it was Marvin. He has the urge to tell her, the admission rising in his throat. But he swallows it back down. It isn't wholly his secret to tell.

And he doesn't want to see the flicker of disappointment in her face that he'd seen on Charlotte's. He doesn't think he could handle it.

:: - ::

He goes to the play. Of course he does.

He sits in the back and watches the shitty performance (Marvin does do pretty okay, actually) and gives a standing ovation when it's over (he catches eyes with Marvin throughout the production, giving him a meek thumbs up or saucy grin in encouragement each time that he looks about to falter). And it's pretty nice, actually. Whizzer doesn't have a  _complete_  shit time.

As the attendees shuffle out after the performance is over, Whizzer hangs back in the theater, waiting for Marvin to finish dressing back into his regular attire and meet him over here. He promised to take him out to dinner, after all, and Whizzer doesn't waste the chance at a free meal.

Marvin soon appears, hopping off the stage and walking over to him. Whizzer smirks and begins to offer him a harmless taunt about the tights that he wore, but then Marvin seizes his collar and pulls him into a kiss.

In  _public_. With  _people_  still around.

Jesus Christ, has he lost his fucking mind?

"No one knows us around here," Marvin whispers against Whizzer's mouth, noticing that the other has been too stunned to reciprocate, _"Relax."_ As if that broke the spell, Whizzer loops his arms around his waist and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. 

It's incredible, really. Whizzer had forgotten that he'd had pressure wedged in his chest until Marvin kisses him and suddenly releases it.

"What?" Marvin asks when they eventually pull away, eyeing his dazed expression.

Whizzer thinks about blowing it off, but the quiet words tumble out of his mouth anyway, "I think I'm happy."

Marvin smiles, suddenly looking as shy as the day that Whizzer had first introduced himself, "Me too." 

In bed that night, Marvin pushes him to lie flat on his stomach and starts pressing chaste kisses along his spine, mumbling words into his skin that Whizzer can't make out.  _It's so easy,_ Whizzer thinks amazedly,  _to be with him. How can it feel so complicated and fucked up one moment and then feel like this the next?_

Whizzer tries not to think about it. He presses his face into the pillow and just enjoys the ride.

:: - ::

"Should I break up with Trina?"

The question startles him. Though he had been fighting off consciousness throughout the morning and trying to keep Marvin in bed as long as possible, Whizzer is suddenly very awake. He looks up to find Marvin's face carefully blank, and he's at a loss as to what he wants to hear.

He asks, "Do you want to?"

"Don't do that. I asked for an answer. Not another question."

"Well, I can't give you an unbiased answer," He points out, "That'd be like if you had asked Mendel. Ask somebody like Charlotte or Cordelia instead."

"Their opinions don't matter," Marvin says, "And they don't know the entire situation like you do."

"Like the fact that you're gay and have been sleeping with a man?"

Marvin stiffens, "You didn't have to say it."

"Does it still bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me," He snaps, suddenly defensive, "I'm not like— _that_. I'm not like you."

Whizzer narrows his eyes, pushing out of Marvin's arms, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not gay," Marvin declares, "Whizzer, you know that." Whizzer knows that that's what Marvin likes to tell himself. It's never stung to hear him say it before though. Until right now.

Maybe because of last night. Maybe because Whizzer had thought that something— _anything_ had changed.

"It seems like you've already made up your mind." Whizzer comments airily, getting out of bed.

"The question isn't whether or not I should—let people  _know_. About us." Marvin says, strangled, "It's if I should break up with Trina."

"Why the sudden change?" Whizzer demands, "I thought Trina was your safety net. Did she piss you off or something?"

"Don't you want me to break up with her?" Marvin asks, looking puzzled at Whizzer's sudden ice, "Wouldn't that make you happy?"

 _Oh,_ Whizzer thinks distantly, his stomach dropping at the realization.

It's a  _breadcrumb_. Marvin wants to keep Whizzer  _happy_ , keep him  _close_ , keep him  _wrapped around his finger_. He recognizes the signs and indicators because he's watched Marvin feed breadcrumbs to Trina like this all the time—confessing some of his insecurities, whining about his Mommy and Daddy Issues, dropping "offhanded" comments about marriage and children that imply a future together. It's to keep her on the hook, to distract her with  _frivolous_  gestures while he continues to do whatever the hell he wants and still keep her in his corner. And now he's trying to pull the same shit with him.

Last night, Whizzer thought that they had finally understood what they meant to each other without having to say it. But now he realizes that Marvin had seen things differently. All of this—the invitation to the play, the kiss in front of strangers, the fancy dinner, the whispers into his spine—was a just  _power play_.

Marvin thinks that he's finally  _attained_  Whizzer, as if he's just a prize. And now he's trying to keep him right under his thumb.

"Whizzer?"

Whizzer has his back to him, and he's so fucking glad that Marvin can't see his face right now.

"I'll do whatever you want me to do, Baby," Marvin says, so damn  _smug,_ "Just tell me."

"I don't give a damn about your love life, Marvin," Whizzer says evenly, "As long I can use your dick whenever I'm bored, you could marry her tomorrow for all I care."

His response seems to throw Marvin off, has him making an incredulous noise in the back of his throat, "But I thought—"

"You thought wrong." Whizzer hurriedly dresses and leaves, ignoring Marvin's confused attempts to get him to tell him what's wrong.

:: - ::

When Whizzer gets back to his apartment, he shuts the door behind him and slides down to the floor, propping his back up against the wood. His hands refuse to stop shaking, his breathing keeps shuddering as if someone is consistently knocking the air out of his lungs, his chest starts hurting—

"I'm _not_  crying over him." Whizzer whispers to himself stubbornly, feeling a dull ache behind his wet eyes. He's relieved that he's able to keep the tears from falling, though he knows that the accomplishment is hollow and bitter.

It doesn't make any of this better, but at least it salvages a bit of his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's halfway over! I'm trying really hard to finish this story before school starts again, so that's why I'm posting very frequently. And hey, just as a time reminder, the next five chapters or so will occur within a two month time-span because a college year is like 8 months, give or take.  
> No spoilers but just get ready for some quality ANGST.


	7. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very long, but a lot of it is stuff that I've already written. However, it is very important to note that I have changed a lot in the sections previously posted on 30 Days. Don't skip over those parts just because you think you've already read it.

Marvin doesn’t break up with Trina and Whizzer doesn’t stop sleeping with him. On the surface, it seems like everything has fallen back into routine.

But the air between them has _shifted_. It took Marvin essentially showing his hand to him to clear the dust from Whizzer’s eyes, but he _gets i_ t now. He understands the game that they’ve been playing has been revised; it’s become dirtier, more _calculated_.

He’s more _aware_ of Marvin now—of the _mind games_ that transcend verbal arguments and _offhanded_ gestures. As if things weren’t already complicated before, both men have now gone straight-up nuclear—so much so that they’ve convinced each other that every word and gesture is a _tool_ to work against the other, is a _ploy_ for domination, is a zero-sum game with _nothing_ off-limits and _everything_ to lose.

It’s fucked up. Whizzer loves in a sick sort of way that has his heart breaking but his mouth begging for more.

Marvin smirks pointedly as Whizzer compulsively picks up the coat he drops to the floor, “You’re gonna make a great housewife one day.” The tone is barbed and begs to be challenged.

“You’re not the first guy to tell me that today,” Whizzer responds breezily, “Though he was complimenting me on my blowjob skills rather than my cleaning.”

The smirk is knocked off Marvin’s face. Whizzer tries to hide his satisfied smile.

:: - ::

Whizzer doesn’t want a _fairytale_. He doesn’t want glass slippers or talking horses or handsome princes telling him what to do. Whizzer wants _passion_ and bitter fights and rough sex and the taste of heartbreak and loneliness on his tongue. He wants as _little_ as possible, just enough to get his rocks off.

Marvin doesn’t want a _trainwreck_. He doesn’t want the harsh collision and crushing of bones and shrapnel to the heart. Marvin wants _romance_ and submission and doe-eyed devotion and the cult of domesticity. He wants _more_ , enough to make him choke on it.

:: - ::

But. It’s not like Whizzer doesn’t _care_ about him. Just because they don’t want the same things doesn’t mean that they don’t want _each other._

“How’d it go?” Whizzer asks gently, recognizing the resignation in Marvin’s face as soon as he steps foot into his apartment.

Marvin laughs spitefully, “She was pissed. I _told_ you she’d be pissed. An eighty-three is basically failing to her.”

This time, Whizzer doesn’t bitch at him when he tosses his coat to the ground or when he props his smelly feet on the coffee table as he flops down on the sofa. He knows by now to recognize when it’s a _battle_ and when it’s a _ceasefire_.

Whizzer gingerly sits down next to him and offers, after a long stretch of silence, “Everybody hates his parents, you know. Some asshole told me that once.”

Marvin smiles meekly, but the haunted look on his face doesn’t dissipate.

“My parents always told me I was a disappointment,” Whizzer tries again, “But fuck them, you know? They don’t mean shit.”

“My parents mean something to me, Whizzer.” Marvin reminds him tiredly, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that if someone makes you feel shitty about yourself or what makes you happy, they’re not worth the headache.” He prods at Marvin’s temple deliberately to emphasize his point.

“You’re oversimplifying.”

“Marvin, that’s not a controversial statement,” Whizzer argues, “If they make you unhappy, cut them out of your life. That’s what I did.” Only he _is_ oversimplifying; it’s _not_ that easy. And Whizzer didn’t cut his parents out of his life so much as _they_ cut _him_ out of _theirs_.

But he wants Marvin to make better choices than he had. He needs him to understand that it’s better to shut someone out before they inevitably gut you and leave you bleeding all alone on the street.

Marvin kisses him deliberately, making it clear that this conversation is over.

But the tension hasn’t left his body, so Whizzer pulls back and clarifies, “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Marvin shakes his head, pulling at Whizzer’s shirt, “Help me forget.”

Whizzer doesn’t fight him on this. He knows when to pick his battles.

:: - ::

"Neurotic boyfriend for sale," Trina announces as she and Marvin walk into Cordelia and Charlotte's apartment, "Any takers?"

From his stretched out position on couch, Whizzer pauses in his Stats homework, offering, "I have five dollars."

Trina nods, "Sold." Whizzer waggles his eyebrows at Marvin, though he seems too spaced out to give him more than a withering look.

"My parents are visiting," Marvin tells them tightly, collapsing on the cushion right beside Whizzer, "So that means I have to replace the beer in my fridge with vegetables and scatter sheets of lecture notes around the apartment and pretend I have a single fucking  _clue_  what I'm going to do after I graduate." Whizzer doesn’t let on to how the news of Marvin’s parents surprises him, busying himself by staring hard at his homework.

"I'm  _so_  glad my parents live too far away." Cordelia sighs, and she launches into a series of comedic anecdotes of her hypochondriac mess of a mother. Whizzer's attention is subverted by Marvin pressed so close to him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace.

He asks lowly under his breath, "How long are they in town?"

"Thursday through Tuesday," He murmurs back, and the implication is clear.  _Don't come over._

Whizzer smirks, mocking quietly, "Think you can last that long?" Marvin rolls his eyes at him, but he knows better than to respond with any specifics lest prying ears overhear.

Whizzer tries to redirect his focus on Cordelia and Trina's banter, but he can't take his attention off of the way Marvin's entire composure is stretched taut beside him. Marvin seems completely _unhinged_ at the thought of an impending visit of his overbearing parents. Absently, Whizzer wonders if Marvin is only scared about them judging his _academic prowess_ or if he’s worried that they'll take one look at him and just  _know_ what else he’s been up to—as if he’ll have the word  _Queer!_  painted on his forehead.

The kind part of Whizzer wants to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it'll be okay, but he shakes that idea off immediately. After all, it isn't  _his_  job to look after the anxious man; he has a doting _girlfriend_ for that.

"Well,  _I_  think Marv's parents are really nice." Trina informs them, looking pointedly at her boyfriend.

Marvin scoffs, "You didn't live with them for eighteen years." Sensing rising tensions, Charlotte changes the subject, and the topic is wasted through meaningless banter and light-hearted conversation. However, Marvin doesn’t seem to be following any of it, his mind millions of miles away.

Whizzer usually _likes_ to see Marvin uncoiled this way but not necessarily when he himself isn’t the one causing it.

While all the attention is placed elsewhere, Whizzer knocks their shoulders together, breaking Marvin out of his quiet meltdown and causing him to look over at him. Whizzer puts on his best encouraging smile, hoping that his eyes communicate all of his thoughts. _You’re okay. You’ve always dealt with my barbed insults with stride; I doubt they could ever think of anything that could top my cruelty. Just relax and breathe; there’s no gun pressed to your head right now. Stop moping and enjoy an afternoon with people who actually love you for who you are._

Hesitantly, Marvin mirrors his smile, the ghost of pain on his face quietly fading away. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he’s fighting off the urge to reach out to Whizzer. Marvin has always been a touch-oriented man, _affection_ calming him down in a way that no words ever could. So this is usually when Whizzer kisses him to quiet the loud, critical voices in Marvin’s head…

But he can’t do that right now. And the frightening part is that he _wants_ to.

“I’ve been trying to cheer him up for _hours_ ,” Trina blurts out suddenly, ripping both men from their silent conversation, “And all it takes is one minute with Whizzer Brown to make him stop being pissy.” It’s not like she’s _implying_ anything, but there is an open-ended question on her statement. All eyes are now trained on Marvin and Whizzer, waiting for whatever bullshit excuse they’ve thought up next.

“What can I say? I have a way with men,” Whizzer says jovially, tasting acid in his mouth when he adds pointedly, “Even the straight ones.” Trina and Whizzer make eye contact, and he sees the real question she desperately wants to ask in her eyes. _Why you? What makes you better than me?_

 _Everything,_ he wants to tell her, an obnoxious sense of pride rising in his throat, _everything._

At times like these, their afternoon together seems like such a distant memory. After all, they do share a bed with the same man, and nothing is more polarizing than the desire for attention and the yearning for…for an _unspeakable thing_. For a four letter word that Whizzer refuses to name.

Marvin tilts his head back and ignores the rising resentments, seemingly tired of more than just his parents at the moment.

:: - ::

Later that night, as Whizzer is walking home from a moderately satisfying fuck, the loud ringtone of his phone cuts through the eerie silence of the streets. He glances down at it, immediately surprised at the name that flashes across the screen.

"Marvin?" He says dubiously, "Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"Why are  _you_  still awake?" Marvin responds coldly, and  _great,_  he's in a  _mood,_ "Did I interrupt you in the middle of your screw or has the random guy thrown you out of his apartment already?"

"No, he's still going," Whizzer makes a point to modulate his voice to appear breathless and hoarse, "You want me to put him on the phone?" Knowing by his lack of an immediate response that he isn't in the mood for this kind of banter, Whizzer rolls his eyes and adds, "Marvin, I'm kidding. Jeez, learn to take a joke."

"I don't know why I called  _you,"_ Marvin laughs a little, but his voice is thick with a less than happy emotion, "God, how  _pathetic_  am I? I should be talking to my  _girlfriend_  about this. Not my—" He cuts himself off. Whizzer's glad that he does; this isn't the time nor place for  _that_  mess of a conversation.

He softens his voice, "Do you want me to come over?"

"No, Trina is here," Marvin says hurriedly, "She's asleep in the bedroom. I'm outside my building—Needed some fresh air." 

"Okay," Whizzer replies, his tone still possessing a questioning lilt, "Then  _what_  is it you want from me?"

"Nothing," But Whizzer doesn't believe that, and this is proven true when Marvin adds, "Just...someone to talk to, I guess."

Whizzer ventures carefully, "About your parents?" And suddenly, what Whizzer has been trying to get him to say for _weeks_ all comes pouring out.

"You think  _I'm_  cold?" Marvin laughs, though his voice holds no jovial inflection whatsoever, "You should spend one minute with my mom; talk about  _ice._ And my dad—he's so stuffed with anti-depressants, it's like talking to a brick wall nowadays. You know, I can tell you exactly what they're going to say to me when..." And Marvin talks for almost an hour, as if unable to even  _stop_ now that the floodgates have opened. Whizzer nods along and butts in every once in awhile, but at one point, he's already home and undressed and he wants to go to  _sleep._

"Marvin," Whizzer cuts him off with a yawn, "I have Stats early tomorrow morning."

"Oh," Marvin says distantly, as if he's just become aware of the late hour, "Yeah, okay. I should go back inside anyway."

"And hey," Whizzer prompts before the other man can hang up, "I just want to remind you...You don't have to  _change_  for them, you know? If they don't like you—the  _real_  you, they can piss off. You shouldn't have to—you know, wear this  _mask_  all the time and put up this huge  _wall_  around yourself. It'll get lonely;  _trust me_. I mean, it already is, isn't it?"

There's a pause of silence before Marvin says quietly, "I told you. It's not that easy."

Whizzer sighs, resigned, "Goodnight, Marvin." After he hangs up, he stretches out on his shitty mattress and looks up at his ceiling fan, letting the blur of motion lull him into sleep.

:: - ::

Sunday night, he realizes how  _majorly_  he fucked up. He scours his entire apartment for his World Civ flash cards until finally he recalls exactly where they are: shuffled away on Marvin's bookshelf. He hesitates to go over straight away, but the pressing deadline of the test being tomorrow morning looms over him like a dark cloud of sulfur and brimstone.  _Fuck it,_ Whizzer thinks to himself and just goes over to Marvin's apartment. He brings the key that Marvin gave him on the off chance that God is real and the residents have stepped away for the evening. 

Whizzer knocks on the door, praying for no answer. His prayers go unsurprisingly unfulfilled as Trina opens the door and greets bemusedly, "Whizzer! What are you doing here?" Within the apartment, Whizzer hears the loud scraping of a wooden chair against a tiled floor. He knows immediately that Marvin is  _not_  happy.

"I forgot my World Civ flash cards here."

Out of nowhere, Marvin appears at the doorframe, pushing the flash cards into his hands and saying almost desperately, "There."  _Now leave_  is left unsaid but implied.

"Who is this?" Whizzer hears a man's gravelly voice before an older gentleman steps into view. He has Marvin's nose and mouth, but his wide eyes of melancholy and exhaustion provide such a stark contrast to Marvin's scathing, hateful gaze.  _This must be his father,_ Whizzer's mind supplies, but he can hardly see any resemblance between the men’s' composures and mannerisms. While Marvin is arrogant and boastful, this man seems reserved and docile, walking through the room with his body turned within itself as if he's afraid to disturb the air around him.

"This is my— _friend."_  The word gets stuck in Marvin's throat, and he suddenly becomes  _very_  pale  _very_  quickly.

"Hello," Marvin's father smiles, like the action  _pains_  him, "We just sat down for supper. Would you like to join us? Trina here made plenty."

"No, I honestly can't—" But his treacherous stomach plots against him, moaning at the mere mention of food like some melodramatic porn star. Distantly, he realizes that he hasn't eaten in the last eighteen hours save for two granola bars.

"Marvin, just invite the boy in already!" A woman's muffled voice commands, "The food is getting cold." And every fiber of fight leaves Marvin at this woman's voice. Trying not to openly scowl, he opens the door wider and beckons him inside.

When Whizzer enters the kitchen, he is greeted by the sight of a mere slight of a woman. Though she is small and thin in stature, she effortlessly commands the room with her self-possessed, almost  _suffocating_  presence. As soon as he steps into her range of sight, she rakes her eyes over him critically. Forming an immediate impression of him, a corner of her mouth twists, looking at him like he's a dead rat. Now _this_ is Marvin's mother _,_ he doesn't even have to convince himself of the fact. 

Trina, Marvin, and Marvin's father each take their seat, leaving Whizzer the chair right beside Trina. Giving no indication that he feels the tension dripping in the air, Whizzer fetches a plate from the kitchen cabinet and starts filling it with food.

"He seems to know his way around here quite well." Marvin's mother makes the offhanded comment, and it seems harmless enough but Marvin  _flinches_  like she's just slapped him.

"We're friends." Marvin explains tightly as he and Whizzer finally make eye contact. Taking one look at the man, Whizzer knows that he didn't take his advice to heart. Marvin has transformed back into his former shell of a self, stapled this ill-fitted persona to his skin as he continually tries to hide the cracks in the façade. Whizzer has spent the last several months mapping each nook and crevice on this man's body, but at this very moment, Marvin might as well be a stranger to him.

Whizzer adopts a chill he just can't shake throughout the entire meal.

:: - ::

Whizzer feels like a passive observer as he watches the dynamics of those around him. Marvin's parents dote on Trina, every word directed in her direction being some form of glowing compliment. By contrast, they are curt and strangely formal with their own son. His mother makes mere small talk with him that reminds Whizzer of how one talks to a stranger. Meanwhile, his father simply stares down at his untouched plate more often than not, his mind far away from here.

Marvin smiles and charms and lies his way throughout the meal, readily putting on this mask that his parents have forged for him. He pretends to be enraptured by Trina and plays along with his mother's unrealistic envision of his future. And he fits into this role of obedient son and charming boyfriend so  _effortlessly,_ Whizzer starts to wonder if Marvin could theoretically put up this act for the rest of his life. But then he notices the bags under Marvin's eyes, the edge in every single one of his easy smiles, the tension in his squared shoulders.  _How exhausting it must be,_ he quietly marvels,  _to be so aware and calculated in your every word and movement._

Whizzer finishes his meal as quickly as he can, standing up abruptly and saying, "Well, this was great and all, but I  _really_  need to study."

Marvin stands up as well, "I'll walk you out." Whizzer goes to decline, but he realizes that Marvin must be  _dying_  for an excuse to get away from here. He lets Marvin lead the way, ignoring the three pairs of eyes that follow the two men until they leave the apartment. He half-expects Marvin to start yelling at him the second the door closes behind them, but Marvin doesn't say a single word. Instead, he simply brushes past Whizzer and walks leisurely to the elevator, though the tension in his coiled body remains. Quite suddenly, Whizzer realizes that he  _really_  doesn't want to be alone with this man right now. Seeing no way out of it, however, he reluctantly gets into the elevator with him, pressing the button to take them to the ground floor.

They are shrouded in uncomfortable silence before Marvin finally blurts out in a hurried, scathing voice, "You don't get to  _lecture_  me, alright?"

"I didn't say anything." Whizzer points out stiffly. An uneasy pause settles between them before Whizzer just can't take it anymore. He maintains a clear, emotionless voice as he says casually, "So was that your trademarked Straight Man persona then? I bet that took some time to cultivate  _just_  right."

"Don't," Marvin instructs flatly, "Don't pretend you  _know_  me." And it  _hurts_  to hear him say that.

"So that emotionless zombie was the real you?" Whizzer bites out, "Wow, good to know." He sighs, and he  _knows_  it isn't his place, but he still adds, "God, how could you let them  _talk_  to you like that—"

"Because I'm not  _like_  you, Whizzer," And under that mixture of fury and exasperation, Whizzer hears a sense of defeat in the man's voice, "I don't have that 'fuck what other people think' attitude. I actually  _care,_ alright? And honestly, is that really such a  _bad_  thing?"

"It is when you're  _destroying_  yourself," He motions to his defeated posture, "I mean, Jesus Christ, Marvin,  _look at you!_ Is something as  _useless_  as yours parents' approval worth killing yourself over?"

"At least  _my_  parents want something to do with me!" Marvin barks, and the low blow is so unexpected and dirty, Whizzer actually flinches, “What, you think I haven’t realized what you’ve been doing? _Pretending_ to care about my relationship with my parents—“

“That’s not what—“

“Of course it is!” Marvin shouts, “You’re trying to ruin my relationship with my mom and dad just so you can justify your own fucked up family situation to yourself! Well, news flash, Whizzer: _just because your parents didn’t give a fuck about their kid doesn’t mean that my parents don’t!”_ Marvin seems to expect a snappy, immediate retort like usual. Only it doesn’t come.

Because Whizzer can only stare at him, the air knocked out of his lungs. Sensing he's crossed a line, Marvin softens, but he doesn't apologize. He  _never_  apologizes. Even when he knows he’s wrong.

It takes a few seconds for Whizzer to regain control of his voice, but when he does, he makes sure it sounds as cold and brittle as ice, "You think you're so much  _better_ than me, don't you? You're so much  _smarter_  than me, Marvin. You're so much more  _successful_  than me, Marvin. You're so superior at  _everything,_ " He takes a step closer, bring their chests close together, "But  _you_  get on your knees for  _me_  again and again. You  _beg_  for it  _time_  after  _time_ —why is that, I wonder?” Marvin’s muscles clench tighter and tighter, but he holds his tongue. Whizzer presses on, wanting something— _anything_  at all that proves he’s gotten under his skin, “And how would Mommy and Daddy react if they saw you like that, huh? Do you think they’d believe me if I told them all about it?" He raises his voice to a yell, "Hey Everybody,  _Marvin is a fa—"_

 _Finally,_  Marvin shoves Whizzer against the wall, slapping a firm hand over his mouth. Pain erupts in Whizzer's back, but he barely registers the sting through his fury. He removes the hand as soon as Whizzer cuts off, but he keeps their bodies pinned together. With a pang, he’s reminded of that first time in the small closet at a stranger’s house. It seems like that happened an entire lifetime ago, though he knows it hasn’t even been a year.

Marvin's face is still just inches away from his, and Whizzer feels fear beginning to coil in his stomach, _"Enough."_

"Or what?" Whizzer taunts in a low voice, and he  _wants_  him to hit him. He wants the sting of a busted lip, needs the distraction to the turmoil brewing in his chest. But Marvin doesn't look as angry as Whizzer feels; he seems heartbroken at Whizzer's words, as if something  _actually_  brought the High and Mighty Marvin down a peg. And so Whizzer breaks their silent truce on to never speak of what’s going on between them, but he makes a pointed decision. He lies.

"You think I  _give a damn_  about you?" Whizzer whispers, and Marvin takes his words like a punch in the gut, "You're just an easy fuck, Marvin. That's all you are to me. We aren't boyfriends. We aren't even close."

The elevator door opens to the ground floor, and the boys quickly separate. Whizzer goes to bolt, but Marvin clamps a firm hand around his wrist, "Wait. I need to hear you say it." Whizzer turns around to face him. Marvin's eyes are closed, his furious breathing slowly evening out. Whizzer hesitates, but then he thinks of his parents and his heart freezes over.

"You mean  _nothing_  to me." 

Marvin nods, letting the words wash over him. He straightens his posture, all previous emotions of fury and heartbreak wiped from his face. He's slipped the mask back on.  _Good,_  Whizzer thinks to himself,  _it suits him._

Marvin lets him go, and Whizzer walks away and doesn’t look back. He hails a cab easily, and it's only when he leans against the rough leather of the backseat that he processes what just happened.

"Hey, Buddy, you okay?" The cab driver asks.

Whizzer's too emotionally strung out to lie, "Not really.”

:: - ::

Whizzer doesn't see Marvin again for an entire _two_   _weeks._

He's tried to make sure of that, of course—He's purposefully been avoiding the man in every way possible. He changed his normal routes to his classes, he stopped going to the same café for lunch, and he even cancelled  _more than once_  on Cordelia and Charlotte when he knew Marvin would be there. Not that his efforts seem to have mattered anyway. Marvin hasn't tried to contact him in any way since that night. In fact, it seems that Whizzer isn't the only one going out of his way to avoid the other, if Cordelia's offhanded comment on how  _weird_  Marvin's behavior has been is any indication. 

This fact shouldn't make Whizzer feel as empty as it does.

As the days trickle by, he becomes increasingly bereft at the lack of pleading and wheedling and simply  _talking_  on Marvin's part. Throughout their entire relationship,  _Marvin_  has been the pursuer,  _Marvin_  has called him and beckoned him and essentially  _chased after him_. Whizzer hasn't been playing hard to get by any means, but he's always made Marvin be the one to first initiate anything. He thought surely  _by now_  Marvin would have cooled down and let his horniness override his pride, which has happened after all of their other previous arguments. Though it  _is_  true that this fight was more vicious and spiteful than the preceding ones, Whizzer didn't  _think_ —

Well, he didn't think that it would mean they were  _over._

Whizzer hates how he jumps each time his text message tone sounds, how his heart drops when he reads the name and realizes it isn't  _him._  He hates feeling so anxious, turning over the short but volatile argument in his head time after time and analyzing each twitch of Marvin's facial muscles. He hates the...the  _silence_  of it all. He would give  _anything_  to lessen the defeating quiet that threatens to swallow him whole no matter where he goes.

And he misses Marvin; hell, he knows that he's a little self-deluded, but he isn't  _that_  stubborn to not admit that. And it's only been two weeks.  _Pull it together, Brown. Jesus Christ._  

:: - ::

“Are you two fighting?” Trina asks after the fourth time that they’ve all hung out with the pointed exception of Marvin.

Whizzer keeps his eyes trained on the burger in his hand, pretending to not feel everyone’s eyes on him, “He just pissed me off, _like usual_.” His tone is clipped, hoping that the message to _drop it_ is clear.

But Trina refuses to let it go, pestering, “What did Marvin do to piss you off?” She distinctly reminds Whizzer of a _fly_ in that moment, hovering over him despite his incessant attempts at swatting her away.

He deflects sharply, annoyed, “Ask your boyfriend if you’re so interested.” He effectively shuts down the conversation from there, but throughout the meal, he keeps feeling her haunted eyes drift over to him.  

:: - ::

He knows that this is probably just another battle of wits. A test of _endurance_ , of course. Of _who can outlast the other?_

But Whizzer _hates_ the quiet of it all, of the uncertainty about where this leaves them and just what they lost in the fallout of some stupid fight.

Marvin is a coward, he knows, and a very sore loser. His pride is that of someone like Achilles, and for people like him, a grudge can outlast a war.

And Whizzer isn’t one to blink first, but he also knows just when to pick his battles.

:: - :: 

Whizzer starts talking as soon as Marvin opens the door, "You're an ass."

Marvin simply blinks at him, obviously  _baffled_  at the intrusion and undecided how to approach the situation, "Uh—okay."

Whizzer stands there expectantly, but Marvin just  _stares_  at him, like he's somehow forgotten what he looks like and is now trying to recommit every slope of his body to memory. He sighs exasperatedly, "Just invite me in already, Marvin."

Marvin seems to finally come back to his senses then. He opens his door wider and allows him to enter the apartment. Whizzer waits until he hears the door shut to turn around to face him, declaring firmly, "So are you ready to talk about this, or do you just want to continue to sulk?”

Marvin crosses his arms over his chest, his expression closed off and guarded. He doesn’t respond, and if he thinks that Whizzer is fine with being the only one giving ground, he’s mistaken.

“Fine.” Whizzer turns around, reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait,” Marvin says hurriedly, “I mean, you’re already here.”

Whizzer withdraws his hand and slowly turns back around. Marvin tucks his hands into his pockets and avoids looking at him, his maturity about this situation being that of a toddler.

“Marvin, look,” Whizzer begins slowly, forcing him to look at him, “I shouldn’t have said some of those things. Maybe I crossed a line. And _regardless_ of whether you deserved the cruelty,” He pauses, deciding to finally expose the chink in his armor, “I shouldn’t have lied like that.”

“You _lied_ , huh?” Marvin won’t let him off the hook, daring him to _say it_ with a raised chin, “About what?”

“Stop being petty,” Whizzer snaps, walking towards him and crowding him against the wall of the hallway, “You know that I—“ The words get caught in his throat, so he settles for something easier, “You know that you mean something to me.” He doesn’t say it, but Marvin hears it all the same.

Something in Marvin’s proud face softens, and the anger and coldness fades from his flushed cheeks and pointed snarl. He hesitantly places a hand on Whizzer’s chest, as if to see whether he still had the right to.

"I shouldn't have thrown your parents in your face like that." He says quietly, looking pointedly at Whizzer’s throat and not his gaze, "That was shit of me. I know that...that  _losing_  them wasn't easy on you." And neither of them really apologized, but right now, it’s still enough.

Whizzer brushes the thought of his parents off, just as they brushed him off nearly two years ago. Instead, he entangled a hand in Marvin’s hair, smirking at how it seems to cause Marvin’s knees to buckle.

“How was the rest of their visit?” Whizzer asks, being petty.

“Awful,” Marvin admits, snaking an arm around Whizzer’s waist, “All I could think about was you.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Yes.”  Marvin’s unabashed honesty always startles him, pulling out a genuine smile on Whizzer’s lips. He smiles at Whizzer then, cocking an eyebrow and pestering coyly, “So I mean _something_ to you, huh? Care to quantify?” Deflecting, Whizzer ducks down to kiss him, but Marvin jerks his head away at the very last second. He tilts his head up and whispers in his ear, almost  _begging,_  "Come on. At least say it.”

"What?" Whizzer plays dumb, kissing his jawline in order to distract him, "That you  _mean_  something to me? Jesus, Marvin, don't let it go to your head. It doesn't mean  _that_  much."

It isn’t what he asked for, but Marvin still grins nonetheless, like he's just won this battle. He cradles Whizzer’s cheek with his palm, tilting his head down and whispering against his lips, "It means enough."

:: - ::

A few hours later, as they lie cramped and entangled on Marvin's shitty couch, naked and sated, they don't talk about what happened before or what will happen later. Maybe they should—after all, several wounds are currently left untreated, exposed to viscous infection that could occur any time in the form of a careless word or barbed insinuation—but they're young and mean and they don't give a flying fuck about the problems that lie just on the horizon. Marvin keeps trying to make him laugh— _desperately_ —and Whizzer refuses to give him the satisfaction, biting his lip to keep the treacherous snickers at bay.

 _And it isn't perfect,_ Whizzer thinks as he tries to smother his laughter into Marvin's mussed hair,  _but right now, it's enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want them to be happy, too.  
> But.


	8. Don't Say It, Prove It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to see Falsettos in theaters this week. Here's a chapter in commemoration for how excited I am.

Whizzer wishes he could say that it gets better from there.

He wishes he could say that he and Marvin are finally on the same page, that they both know exactly what they want from each other, that they aren't hot and sweet one day but then cold and hateful the next.

He wishes he could say that this is where the story ends: two boys curled up together on a couch, breathless and laughing.

It doesn't end like that. But still. It's nice to pretend—at least for a little while longer.

:: - ::

They fight nearly every time they see each other now—sometimes it ends in hot, angry sex; other times, Whizzer slams the door behind him so hard, it rattles the entire apartment building.

It's not over silly, trivial issues anymore—not about the artistic merit of _Dreamgirls_ , or whether Patroclus and Achilles were fuck-buddies, or whose turn it is to serve on the court. Now, all their fights are about Whizzer sleeping around or Marvin talking down to him or Whizzer trivializing their relationship or Marvin refusing to accept that he isn't the straight-laced, perfect gentleman that he so desperately wants to be. It's always dirty and mean and so incredibly  _addicting_. Whizzer loves the pure  _rage_  that Marvin incites within him, the taste of it like blood in his mouth.

"Would it really be so hard to stop giving it away like free candy?" Marvin snaps, the hour-long duration of the fight not evident in his clipped, booming voice, "Have some _self-respect_ , for your own sake."

"Don't pretend that you care about my  _self-esteem_ ," Whizzer shoots back, narrowing his eyes at him, "You're just being  _selfish_ , Marvin. Well, news flash: I’m not going to blindly sign away my life and bind myself to you just because you’re _jealous_.”

"I’m just saying that it would be nice to not be constantly worried about catching STDs because you're too slutty to even be bothered to wear a condom half the time!"

"If you're so worried, then stop cheating on your girlfriend," Whizzer points out, "Now _that's_ a novel idea."

Marvin rolls his eyes, "So you could give this up just like that, huh?" He looms over Whizzer, pressing him against the wall.

"Yeah, I could," But Whizzer ducks his head, just a breath away from Marvin's lips, "You flatter yourself too much, Marv. You're just like the others."

"I thought you said I wasn't just a piece of meat to you." Marvin throws his words in his face, "That I meant something to you."

"Don't be naive," Whizzer unbuckles Marvin's belt, sliding it off and dropping it to the floor, "I only said it to get in your pants." Marvin doesn't believe him for a second, but before he can say anything else, Whizzer throws himself at him.

This is the status quo: They fight and they fuck and they occasionally hint at their feelings. It isn't healthy. Maybe that's why Whizzer loves it so damn much.

:: - ::

"God, somehow it's gotten  _worse_." Mendel bemoans after Marvin and Whizzer’s thirty-minute fight over some idiotic issue that Whizzer can't even remember.

"I miss when you guys got along," Cordelia agrees, "Sure, it was weird, but it didn't cause me any headaches."

"What happened between you two?" Charlotte asks, her voice bathed in fake innocence, "The honeymoon period over?"

"There was never a honeymoon period," Whizzer declares, glaring at Marvin, "He's always been a pain in my ass."

"The pain in your ass is from you letting nameless guys screw you in dark alleyways," Marvin snaps, "Don't blame that on me."

"Jesus, that's all you have over him? That he's  _stupid_  and  _slutty._ " All heads pivot to the direction of the shrill voice, a general sense of shock at the outburst. Because this is  _Trina_  here— _reserved, soft-spoken, docile_   _Trina_ —barking at Whizzer and Marvin with the same tenacity that the men usually reserve for one another.

She continues, annoyed and exasperated,"And then he gets to say the same shit to you too like how you're a _giant_   _condescending asshole_. I mean,  _come on_ , if you guys are going to ruin the evening by fighting all the time,  _at least_ _get some new material already_." Marvin and Whizzer gawk at her, their annoyance at one another subsiding as their hearts are overshadowed by shock. It's Cordelia who breaks the silence, letting out a snorting cackle that makes Mendel and Charlotte soon join in. 

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Trina." Cordelia toasts, her cheeks stained flush with delight. But Marvin is less than delighted.

"What's your problem lately?" He demands, "You've been like this for  _weeks_." Trina looks at him, and her expression is a mixture of frustration and hopelessness.

"I'm surprised you even noticed," Trina says icily, "You've been stuck up Whizzer's ass, I could've sworn  _he_  was your girlfriend." Whizzer is almost jealous of Trina in that moment. He's said worse shit to Marvin and it rarely even makes him flinch anymore. But one hateful word from Trina, and it seemingly breaks the man. Marvin is left wide-eyed and speechless, his face draining of all color.

Trina doesn't back down and run away, trapping Marvin in her cold gaze. The humor in everyone's face at Trina sticking it to Marvin abruptly fades as a cold, hateful chill develops within the group. Whizzer watches the interaction with baited breath, hating how their argument delights him in a way that must be purely sadistic.

He expects for Marvin's shock to bleed into anger, but he's surprised when a raw sense of hurt spreads across the man's face instead.

"Of course I noticed," Marvin says quietly, "You're  _Trina._  I love you." And for the first time, Whizzer actually almost believes him, too.

At his words, the fight leaves Trina immediately. The spite drifts from her face as she very pointedly slips into Marvin's embrace and rests her head in his shoulder.

Suddenly, Whizzer isn't very delighted anymore. 

"Okay, can we all just agree to lighten up around here?" Mendel requests, "We only have, like, a  _month_  before graduation. Let's just chill out and enjoy it, you know?"

Whizzer notices that Trina's hand has entangled in Marvin's hair.

"Yeah," Whizzer agrees faintly, the jealousy choking him, "Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

:: - ::

_I love you._

It means  _nothing_  to Marvin. It means  _everything_  to Trina. 

_I love you._

To Whizzer, those words have always been an excuse for mistreatment or a ploy for sex. It's always been his parents'  _"I'm justifying being the cause of your unhappiness"_ or one of his lover's  _"Please give me head later."_ It's never just  _I love you_. It's  _always_  had a double meaning. It's  _always_  had strings attached.

The words are never  _meaningless_ per se, Whizzer rationalizes; they just never only carry the surface implication.

_I love you._

Marvin tells Trina this, but what he’s really saying is a plea for submission, for her to stick her head in the sand and never question him. It's a ploy. It's a deceit. It's a  _breadcrumb_.

_I love you._

Sometimes Whizzer imagines Marvin saying those words to him—perhaps mid-sex, or huddled beneath the covers and trying to ignore the rising sun, or in the middle of an argument when Marvin needs a trump card.

Whizzer ponders just what his reaction would be. Would it mean anything to Whizzer? Would Marvin ever mean it in the first place?

 _"I love you."_ Whizzer whispers once, alone in his apartment.

The words still feel hollow to him—be it in his mind or mouth.

:: - ::

It happens during a fight. Whizzer isn't surprised in the slightest.

"Well, that fucking sucks," Marvin shoots back, his voice hoarse and strangled, "Do you get off on making me miserable?" They've been going at it for hours now, so long that they've been recycling old arguments just to keep the momentum going. 

"Yes," Whizzer tells him, smiling cruelly, "Making you miserable is better than sex, Marv."

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I fell in love with someone like you." As soon as the exasperated words fly out of Marvin's mouth, the man stiffens in shock and horror (Whizzer can't tell if it's being feigned, if this is just one of those theatre workshop activities that he's been obnoxiously doing all the time).

Up until that point, Whizzer had been pretty sure that he knew just how those words would affect him. They would hardly even register, he had reasoned. Whizzer would be mindful of the mind games that Marvin plays, and he would be reminded of the ease that Marvin spouts off those words to Trina, and he would be able to rationally see it as the bullshit that it is. He would be _calm_ and _indifferent_ and _unwavering_ , he had imagined.

He was wrong.

Whizzer's eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry, and his chest does something a little funny that makes his breathing turn stilted. And he feels like his heart is devouring every sense of rational thought. 

"Those words are cheap," He points out, but his voice is weak, "You say it to Trina all the time, and we both know how much you  _really_  'love' her."

Marvin shakes out of his horrified state, looking affronted and frustrated, "You're trying to fight me over this too? I'm not fucking around, Whizzer. You know that I love you."

And there it goes again. Those words, his eyes, his mouth, his chest, his heart.

"Enough." Whizzer doesn’t so much as demand as _plead_ , and even though he wants to run away, he ends up walking over to Marvin and trying to kiss him into silence.

"No, fuck it." Marvin says, pushing Whizzer's clawing hands off of him, "I'm tired of pretending that I don't give a fuck just for some stupid pride. Whizzer, I love you." Whizzer rips off Marvin's belt and tears open his shirt.

"Don't say it," Whizzer whispers harshly, threading his hands through Marvin's hair and pulling Marvin's head so their mouths are two little words apart, "Prove it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Trina (Reprise).  
> It's already halfway written so expect an update sometime very soon (hopefully).


	9. The Idealist

The following morning, as they each start redressing, Marvin declares plainly, "I'm breaking up with Trina." 

Whizzer pauses, his hand stalling mid-button.

"It's something that I've been meaning to do for awhile," Marvin admits quietly, ignoring Whizzer's stare on him as he continues to dress, "I mean, it was fine when we were just kids in college, but we're  _graduating_  soon. We're gonna be honest-to-God  _adults_  now. And I don't really know what my plans are for the future, but each time I sit down and actually  _think_  about it, none of those plans ever include her."

Unlike before, Marvin doesn't seem to be so focused on Whizzer's reaction to the possibility of the break up. Really, he doesn't seem so focused on  _anything_ —his gaze glossed over, his actions absent and offhanded. He seems pensive,  _thoughtful,_ like his body is anchored here but his mind is floating elsewhere.

"And she deserves _more_ ," Marvin continues after a pause, "She deserves someone who doesn't tune her out when she starts talking for more than five minutes and likes sleeping next to her and holds her hand when she's sad—"

Whizzer interjects, supplying, "Someone who loves her."

"I do love her." Marvin protests sharply, his gaze snapping into focus. He's on the defensive now, as if he's still trying to cling to that lie as much as Trina. But Whizzer gives him a pointed, knowing look, and after a beat, Marvin softens.

He amends roughly, "Well, I  _care_  about her."

"You know that's not the same thing."

"Yeah," Marvin looks at Whizzer, echoing faintly, "I think I’ve realized that now."

His face growing hot, Whizzer busies himself by buttoning the rest of his shirt. The conversation is briefly put on pause while they continue to collect themselves and get dressed. Even though Marvin is only standing a foot or so away from him, he seems millions of miles away. He looks distracted,  _distant_. 

Whizzer reaches over and grasps Marvin's bicep, bring him back to Earth.

"It's for the best." He assures him pointedly. Marvin smiles and nods, but he doesn't seem as convinced of the fact as Whizzer.

Whizzer continues, "When are you gonna do it?"

"Tonight," Marvin replies, slipping his shoes on, "She's already made reservations for us at some suave place.  _Wanted to make the night special,_ or whatever." 

"Call me after you do it," Whizzer tells him, trying to lighten the heavy tone of the conversation by smacking his ass, "As your first night as a single man, I'll make it  _special_."

Despite himself, Marvin's mouth twitches into a lewd smile, "Thanks for the motivation."

"So," Whizzer redirects the conversation, hoping that it'll help Marvin quiet the noises in his head, "I'm having a meeting with Mr. Total-Dick-Face today over my last missing piece. He's giving me one week to get it, but I think I can charm him into granting me two..." The change of topic seems to work only halfway. Marvin pays attention to Whizzer and responds accordingly, but there's something in his expression that just isn't right. It's so  _vague_ , almost like Marvin himself doesn't even know what he's feeling. 

As they leave Marvin's apartment and make way for the elevator, it's brought up again.

"It'll be so  _weird_ ," Marvin remarks, still having that ambiguous expression on his face, "To be without her. She's been a fixture in my life for the better part of almost  _four years_. I feel like she's always been there for me." And that's when Whizzer finally places his expression:

Marvin is actually  _sad_. Even though he  _doesn't_  love her—even though he  _never_  did, Marvin is heartbroken at the thought of losing her.

And it isn't hard to understand  _why_. Even though their whole relationship was a sham from the very beginning, it doesn’t delude from the fact that Marvin is going to suffer a major loss in his life. Trina  _clung_  to him,  _depended_  on him,  _worshipped_  him. She was always  _there_. And now, for the first time in years, she won't be.

This is the first time that Marvin has the capacity of being  _alone_.

"You don't  _have_  to do it," Whizzer suggests vainly, trying to console him, "I mean, take a couple more days if you need to think it over."

"Why are you trying to talk me out of it?" Marvin asks, perplexed, "You  _hate_  her."

"I don't  _hate_  Trina. I hate the fact that she's with you because you make each other miserable," Whizzer corrects him, "And I'm just trying to give you options."

Marvin seems almost tempted for the bailout but he quickly shakes himself out of it.

"I need to do it." He affirms, adding after a beat, "Even if it does go shitty, at least it'll make things way easier for us."

"Don't do it for  _me_." Whizzer tells him firmly, "Do it for yourself.  _And her_. You two deserve better than each other."

"I think she'll be relieved, really," Marvin admits, "For it to be over. She'll hate me for a long fucking time, but I think that—given time, we can be friends again."

Whizzer snorts, "Always the idealist."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting it all," Marvin tells him, leaning in for a kiss, "As long as you can actually  _achieve_  it. And I  _can_."

Whizzer wants to argue, but Marvin presses their mouths together and swallows his rebuttal.

:: - ::

After classes and then his meeting with Mr. Total-Dick-Face, Whizzer rebuffs his desire for a quick screw from one of his regulars. After all, he promised to make Marvin's night special, and he needs to be on his A-game. Instead, he distracts himself by hanging out with Cordelia, the two crashing a free wine-tasting party on the rich side of town.

Whizzer sniffs his third sample pointedly, swishing it around in the glass a couple times before taking a posh sip.

"Tastes like piss." He declares, dignified. Cordelia smothers her giggles with her hand, raising her own glass and sniffing it.

"Smells like shit." She adds, regal.

Whizzer hides his smile from the server by turning around, "Come, my dear wife. We shall find a wine that suits our needs. We will stay all night if we must!"

They get kicked out twenty minutes later.

"So," Cordelia prompts, her arm laced through his as they walk down the street, "I have a question. And you can't get pissy at me if I'm wrong."

"Well, I'm terrified," Whizzer says, half-jokingly, "But yeah, okay. Shoot."

"Your secret boyfriend," Cordelia says slowly, "It's Marvin, isn't it?"

Whizzer manages to keep his expression and tone pointedly neutral.

"Yes."

Cordelia lets out a noise, halfway in between a shudder and a laugh.

"Fuck," She responds, "I thought so, but I didn't think you'd  _admit it."_

"Did Charlotte tell you?"

" _Charlotte_  knows?" Cordelia exclaims, "How?  _When?"_

"It was at a toga party. She figured it out." Whizzer says, "Don't be mad at her. I made her promise later not to tell anyone."

Cordelia meekly nods, but she still looks a little miffed.

"How'd you find out?" Whizzer asks, recalling Charlotte's explanation, "One look at Marvin give it away?"

"Oh please. Marvin's  _always_  made doe-eyes at you," Cordelia rebuffs, surprising Whizzer, "I figured it out when _you_ started making doe-eyes back at _him_."

Whizzer doesn't respond, averting his gaze and looking upward.

"The sky." He declares in a fragment, abruptly ending their previous discussion.

Cordelia rolls her eyes at his pathetic attempt, but she joins anyway, "It's blue."

"I love the sky." Whizzer adds, relieved that she's letting him off the hook.

"I love best friends that keep secrets from me." Or maybe she's not.

"He told me he loves me last night," Whizzer confesses to her, the words buzzing on his tongue, "He's breaking up with Trina today."

Cordelia watches him, "And how do you feel about all of that?"

Whizzer keeps his eyes on the endless blue above him, smiling in a way that hurts his face, " _Happy_."

:: - ::

That night, Whizzer waits and waits and waits for a call that never comes.

Finally, at around one o'clock in the morning and after three glasses of wine, Whizzer calls him.

It's almost sent to voicemail before Marvin answers it, "I can't talk right now."

"What the fuck?" He asks, slurring a little, "You forget something?"

"I couldn't." He's being vague and soft-spoken, almost as if...

"She's there, isn't she?" Whizzer realizes, "You didn't break up with her."

"I didn't have the chance to bring it up." Marvin tells him hurriedly in a hushed whisper, "Listen, I  _can't_ —"

Whizzer hangs up and throws his phone across his bedroom.

He lies down and stares at the ceiling for a long time.

:: - ::                                                   

The following day, Marvin blows up his phone, but Whizzer refuses to answer. He doesn't want to hear the bullshit excuse that Marvin has come up with to try to cover up the fact that he’s just a  _coward_. A spineless, sweet-talking, stupid  _coward_.

And when Whizzer eventually decides to talk to him again, he'll tell him as much.

That afternoon, Trina arranges a hangout session at her apartment, and though Whizzer debates blowing it off, he doesn't want Marvin to think that he's  _scared_  to face him.

Even though there's an empty seat next to Marvin, Whizzer sits pointedly next to Cordelia, possessing an air of indifference despite Marvin's penetrating gaze locked in him. At Marvin’s other side, Trina holds his hand and looks lighter than she has in weeks, her happiness evident in the radiant glow of her face.

Cordelia is also looking at him. Whizzer ignores her as well.

"We have an announcement to make," Trina tells them, her voice shaking, "It's something that I've known for a little while, and I only told Marvin last night, and I know that—"

"She's pregnant." Marvin says, measured and neutral.

A lot of things happen at once.

Charlotte sucks in a surprised breath, and Mendel drops the beer that he’d been holding, and Cordelia beams at Trina but squeezes Whizzer's hand tightly, and Whizzer—

For Whizzer, the entire room is spinning. He's surprised that he doesn't throw up.

"Oh." He exclaims faintly, more breath than word.

Marvin looks at him, and for a split second, Whizzer sees the devastation and the frustration and the  _helplessness—_

But then, as if he anticipated his pregnant girlfriend's eyes on him, Marvin looks away and beams at Trina. He looks like an overwhelmed but happy boyfriend, kissing the backside of her hand and grinning at her. But it's a lie. It's all a lie.

Marvin places a hand on Trina's stomach, and his expression fades into something softer, more  _genuine_. He touches her reverently, the thought of  _his_   _child_  growing inside her bringing a shocked but delighted smile to his face. He looks happy in a way that Whizzer has never seen before.

At that moment, Whizzer and Trina make eye contact, and he wildly expects a gloating expression on her face. After all, she's  _won_ , hasn't she? It's  _over_. She's got him beat.

But there is no pride or boast in her gaze. Trina looks at him, and she smiles, and she just looks so genuinely  _happy_. And it makes Whizzer feel disgusted with himself—for that day in the park, for sleeping with her boyfriend, for _hating_ her.

"I'm happy for you." Whizzer tells her, holding her gaze. He doesn't mean it. From the way her smile dims, Whizzer thinks that she kinda knows that.

:: - ::

After the happy announcement, they have a party of sorts. Trina breaks out the beer for the rest of them while she refrains with some water, and they all start to tell the same old stories that usually makes Whizzer laugh and have a good time.

But tonight, Whizzer just gets  _drunk_. So shit-faced, in fact, that he's nearly a vegetable in all attempts at conversation. 

He waits a respectable time before deciding to bail out, slurring out a lie, " _Fuck_. I have an early meeting with Mr. Total-Dick-Face."

“That'll go well." Mendel says, gesturing to the way that Whizzer can barely stand.

Surprising everyone including himself, Whizzer throws his arms around Trina, wrapping her in a hug.

"You're going to be  _such_  a great mom." He whispers in her hair.

She returns the hug whole-heartedly, and she sounds like she’s crying a bit, "Thank you.”

"And can I just point out," Whizzer pulls back, making his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, " _Whizzer_  is a unisex name."

"Good to know," Trina says, smiling, "We'll keep that one in the running."

Giving her one last smile, he then turns to Marvin. His smile fades. Resisting the urges to both punch him and bury his face in the crook of his neck, Whizzer simply sticks out his hand, "Congratulations, Marv."

Hesitantly, Marvin takes his hand, "Thank you." He looks over at Trina, "The asshole is shit-faced. I'm going to drive him home. I'll see you in a few minutes." He kisses her cheek as she nods.

Whizzer flinches away from Marvin when he tries to put a hand on his shoulder to lead him away.

:: - ::

In Marvin's truck, Whizzer leans his head on the passenger window, his cheek pressed up against the glass. They don't speak for a long time.

"You're going to be a terrible father."

He doesn't look over at him, but he can guarantee that Marvin's grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"Maybe so," He concedes quietly after a beat, "But I’m going to be there for them anyway."

"Are you going to marry her?"

"I don't know," Marvin admits, "I haven't decided yet—about  _anything_."

"Well, I'll make this one easy for you," Whizzer lifts his head up, making sure Marvin can see the seriousness in his face, "It's over between us."

"Stop. You're drunk."

"You're going to have a  _family_ ," Whizzer rationalizes, "I don't exist in that world."

"You exist in  _my_   world," Marvin says tightly, "That will never change."

"It can't work anymore, Marvin. You can't blow off your girlfriend like you have been doing. Not when she's _carrying your kid."_

" _I_ can make it work," Marvin assures, and the dumb son of a bitch looks like he actually believes that, "I won't let this hurt us, Whizzer. It's just a—a  _complication_. But  _nothing_  has to change." But that’s such an naive thing to believe—even for a dreamer like him.

Whizzer wants to point this out, but his head hurts and his eyelids keep sagging.

"Always the idealist." He mumbles instead, pressing his face against the window and passing out.

:: - ::

_In his dream, nothing is awful. He's in a crowded ballroom, feeling tipsy and happy and in love. Across the room, he spies Cordelia and Charlotte, getting drunk on champagne and giggling into each others’ ears. A few feet away from the two girls are Trina and Mendel, holding each other tight as they dance to the melodic melody echoing throughout the hall. Trina looks beautiful and happy in the arms of a man who loves her. Whizzer watches his friends laugh and fall in love, and he's struck with a sense of deep contentment. In his dream, he's happy._

_Sturdy arms wrap around his torso, pulling him into an embrace from behind. Whizzer relaxes against Marvin, turning his head so the man can see the unadulterated adoration on his face._

_"I love you." Marvin says, and it is beautiful in its offhanded nature. It means nothing and everything all at once._

_"I love you, too." Whizzer admits finally, his voice aching with the honesty of it._

When he wakes up, Whizzer is alone in a cold bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more chapters left. Ahh, I can't deal.


	10. A Tight-Knit Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I saw the proshot and it was literally /everything/ to me. I'm surprised that I was able to finish writing this; I've had mush-brain ever since I saw it.

Tangled in flannel bedsheets, Whizzer rests his head on Marvin's chest, the flicker of his heartbeat lulling him onto the precipice of sleep. The cocoon of blankets and Marvin's warm body create a fortitude of warmth and comfort, and it almost makes Whizzer forget about the nasty fight that they'd had only an hour ago, about how any minute now Marvin will kick him out in order to get ready to take his  _pregnant girlfriend_  to her doctor appointment.

"What about Darius?" Marvin asks, breaking the peace.

"Dairy-Ass." Whizzer mutters against his skin.

He can't see it, but he can guarantee that Marvin makes a face, "Darius is the name of a Persian  _king_."

"Take it from someone named _Whizzer_ ," He says tiredly, wishing to end the stupid conversation, "You do not want a  _cool, unusual_  name. Kids are cruel, and your brat will already have genetics working against him." He’s tired of talking about this so  _casually_ , like discussing baby names with your side-piece is somehow acceptable in _any_ capacity. He hates the constant reminder of it—haunting him and taunting him and choking him.

Because to him, the baby isn't a _miracle_ or a _blessing_ or an accepted means of small talk; it's the _nail_ in Marvin's _coffin_ , the _last call_ on whatever it is between the two of them.

And Whizzer just wishes Marvin would stop pretending like it isn't.

"Jason?" Marvin suggests after a long pause.

Deciding to give into his drowsiness, Whizzer shrugs and says noncommittally, "Not bad."

:: - ::

Whizzer repeats her words back slowly and carefully, a bemused expression fixed on his face, "You want me to... _take your picture_?"

Trina wrings her hands nervously, giving him a small smile, "You know, like a—a family portrait? I just thought it'd be nice to show the baby one day."

"You know you can go to somebody whose actual _job_ that is, right?" Whizzer says bluntly, looking down to fiddle with his camera so he won't see Trina's smile dim.

"Well, yes, I know," She admits slowly, caught off guard by his defensiveness, "But I just thought that it would be more special. You know, to be taken by a friend."

 _Friend_. She thinks that they're  _friends_. Well, that’s just— _spectacular_.

"You're not even showing yet," Whizzer points out, deflecting, "What's the rush?"

"We're graduating in _two weeks_." She says, shrugging, "I mean, I know that we've all made that bullshit pact to promise to ‘stay in touch’ and all, but let's be _realistic_ here. It won't ever be the same once we get out in the real world—you know, start working nine to five and getting job offers and moving away..." She smiles wryly, nudging his foot with her own, "Knowing you, you'll probably be somewhere in Europe while Marv and I change diapers in Queens."

Whizzer responds quietly, more to himself than her, “Maybe I'll be around more than you think."

When Whizzer first propositioned Marvin in the car the night of their first kiss, the end of senior year seemed so _distant_ , the thought of keeping Marvin longer than a month or so before he bored him seemed so _ridiculous_. But _now_ look at where he is.

So what is he supposed to do, huh? Be Marvin and Trina’s weird “friend of the family” who hangs around the house all the time? Play catch with their kid on the weekend and help Trina make dinner and then fuck Marvin in their bed while Trina is picking the brat up from school?

It all sounds so… _sad_. And though that’s all probably the idyllic version of the future that Marvin is clinging onto, Whizzer feels a clenching in his stomach.

Because that’s not a _family_. That’s _delusions_ and _secrets_ and _playing house._

 _Let's be realistic,_ Trina had said. And thank God for her because Whizzer was starting to believe that he’s the only one not living in Dreamland.

"Who's to really say how the future pans out, like who moves where or who stays with who?" Whizzer blurts out, ripping himself from his mental break down, "Hell, maybe a couple months from now, you and Marvin might be history." And no, he's not being  _cruel_. He's being  _realistic_.

Surprisingly, Trina doesn't look offended. She just  _smiles_. In a way that  _terrifies_  him.

"Can I tell you a secret?" She says lowly, and though Whizzer only stares blankly at her, she continues, "Last night, I heard Marvin talking on the phone with my dad. Marv asked him if he could have my grandmother's antique wedding ring—to 'keep with tradition' when he ‘ _does it_.’'"

_"Are you going to marry her?" Whizzer had asked._

_"I don't know," Marvin had admitted, "I haven't decided yet—about anything."_

Whizzer nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "You're going to marry him." It isn't a question, so he doesn't phrase it like one. Of course Trina will say yes—because she's young and she wants so desperately to pretend that he loves her and she's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family. 

No, if he were to ask a question, it would be:  _He's going to marry you?_

But that shouldn't be a surprise either. Of course Marvin will propose—because he's gay and he wants so desperately to pretend that he isn't and he's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family.

Maybe they _are_ perfectly suited together; they're both so willing to play into delusions and pretend that they're happy and everything happens for a reason and a marriage will somehow make things better.

At this point, Marvin and Trina have almost finished digging their own graves, but Whizzer himself still hasn’t broken the ground yet. Right now, he's still holding the shovel, trying to decide if it's all worth it, if  _he's_  all worth it.

"Okay." Whizzer says faintly, "I'll take the picture."

Trina hugs him, and even though her grip is light and her body is soft, Whizzer feels like he's being crushed.

:: - ::

At least Marvin seems to also feel like he wants to get run over by a truck.

"Move in closer," Whizzer advises, "She's your  _girlfriend_ —not some serial killer." 

Marvin shoots him a dirty look but complies, pressing his front to Trina's back. Immediately, she starts to lean back against him, turning her head to catch his gaze and smile. Hesitantly, Marvin returns her smile, and it’s so artificial— _all of it:_ the smiles, the proposal, the promise of happiness—that Whizzer has to look away.

"Ready to try?" He prompts, wanting to get this whole thing over with already.

Trina reaches back and takes hold of Marvin's hands, leading them forward to press against her stomach. As soon as his palms rest over the growing child, Marvin sighs and steels himself, trying to look less unhappy.

"Ready." Trina confirms.

The first picture is so painfully awkward and stilted, Whizzer winces as he takes it.

"One more try. I think Marvin blinked." Whizzer proposes, and he gives Marvin a significant look before glancing pointedly at the lens.  _Try to look more in love with your future wife and less in love with the photographer._

This picture is a lot better, though Marvin looks into the camera with a pained smile and Trina is smiling like she does realize that she's delivering herself into a devouring mouth but just can't seem to help herself.

Whizzer makes sure to give her a look of solidarity; he knows the feeling.

:: - ::

Later that afternoon, Marvin texts him to swing by his apartment. Whizzer makes the pointed decision to leave it on read and not respond.

And because apparently when Marvin says  _jump_ , he's supposed to ask  _how high_ , Marvin breaks one of the only rules they have left and goes to Whizzer's apartment.

"Let me in." 

Whizzer is tempted to shut the door in his face, but he knows that that won't dissuade him. He'll just start yelling and banging on the door and make Whizzer's neighbors hate him more than they already do.

"If you want a meaningless fuck, try the bathrooms of that gay club on Fifth Avenue," Whizzer says snidely as he opens the door wider anyway, "I'm not in the mood tonight."

Marvin huffs as he walks in, his back facing Whizzer, "It's never meaningless when we do it."

"Speak for yourself."

The muscles in Marvin's back tense, but he doesn't take the bait, "Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I didn't want to," Whizzer says as he closes the door, sneering, "Is that _alright_ with you? After all, _my_ needs are always subservient to _yours_ , aren’t they?”

"Stop it," Marvin commands, like Whizzer's some _lapdog_ , "I don't want to fight right now."

"Why is it always about what  _you_  want, huh?" Whizzer demands, "I'm not just some mindless sex doll, Marvin. I have wants and needs, too."

"I know that," Marvin snaps, turning around to face him, " _Of course_  I know that. You're  _Whizzer_. I love you."

 _"You're Trina,"_ The memory of Marvin's words hits him like a truck,  _"I love you."_

"Trina was right,” Whizzer says coldly, “You really need to get new material." And the words are so _meaningless_ to Marvin, he doesn't even seem to know what Whizzer is referring to.

"Really?” He says incredulously, “ _That's_  your response?"

"What else would it be?"

"Oh, _I don't know_. Maybe something  _real_  for once in your life," Marvin yells, his voice raising and trembling with each syllable, "Maybe an admission better than _'you mean something to me.'"_

"You really want me to make you feel better? Okay. Fine.” Whizzer wants to hurt him— _desperately_ , so he puts on a condescending, taunting smile and says with prominent insincerity and mockery, “ _I love you, too, Marvin."_

Marvin looks at him like he’d just broken his heart.

But Whizzer refuses to budge this time, steeling his voice and looking him dead in the eyes, "Stop trying to have your cake and eat it, too. That's _not_ how this works."

"Why do you have to be such a _bastard_ all the time?" Marvin asks softly, "Jesus, you say you have wants and needs, but do you even have  _feelings_?"

 _Yes,_ he wants to scream, _that’s the fucking problem._

Instead Whizzer replies, "I just don't let them _control_ me like you do."

"I'm so sorry that I'm  _human_. You know, this isn't—"

"Why are you marrying her?" The question takes both of them by surprise.

"Who?" And how quickly he forgets the existence of his bride-to-be, " _Trina?"_

"You're  _ruining_  her life. You're ruining  _your_  life." And once Whizzer has started, he just can't stop. Anger and frustration leak into his calculated voice, thickening it to the point of almost incoherency, "You're ruining the  _baby's_  life. You're ruining _my_ life.” He hates pretending that it doesn’t bother him, that nothing has changed, that Whizzer can somehow fit into that family portrait. Because it _does_ bother him and _everything_ has changed and Whizzer doesn’t want to waste his life shadowing somebody else’s family and being fed _breadcrumbs_ by a man too cowardly to be honest about what he wants.

Whizzer is trembling now, admissions and anxieties rising in his throat and gagging him.

But Marvin is perfectly composed, his eyes narrowed and mouth fixed in a sneer.

"How am I ruining your life," He asks sharply, "When apparently _you don't love me anyway_?" Whizzer doesn't answer. He  _can't_.

"You want it all." He says instead, "But you can't have it all, Marvin. I'm sorry, but you  _can't_." But Marvin will never admit it—to Whizzer, to Trina, to himself.

"At least  _I_  know what I want!" 

"I know what I want," Whizzer snaps, "I want you to  _get out of my fucking apartment._ And I want _space_ —from you, from Trina, from that _thing_. Jesus, Marvin, I feel like I can’t even think for myself anymore with you trying to control me all the time.” Marvin looks like he wants to say more, to keep this fight going until Whizzer is inevitably so pissed that he goes and has sex with Marvin anyway. But something in Whizzer's expression stops him.

Marvin looks down at his shoes and swallows hard, and when he talks, his voice is ragged and tired, "Her dad is making me marry her. I don't have a choice."

"What, you want me to feel  _sorry_  for you?" Whizzer scoffs, his voice cold, brittle, ” _Fuck you,_ Marvin. That's just another bullshit excuse. Everyone always has a  _choice_. You're just making the wrong one and trying to blame it on the invisible gun to your head." Whizzer refuses to give him pity, even though Marvin’s crumbled expression makes his heart break.

Marvin laughs a little, but that's only to cover up the fact that he's trying hard not to cry, "You know,sometimes I think that I kinda hate you." And that—

That hurts. That hurts a whole fucking lot.

"Leave." Whizzer requests, softening his voice, "Be there for your fiancé." And it's terrible and he doesn't know why, but Whizzer is disappointed when Marvin finally complies, slamming the door shut behind him.

Hating the echo of their fight ringing in his ears, Whizzer busies himself by fiddling with his camera, but he ends up just staring at the picture that he'd taken earlier today.

He's not staring at the picture that he's going to develop and give to the tight-knit family. He's staring at the first picture that he took, the one that he'll never show Trina, never show  _anyone_.

In the photograph, Trina looks  _scared_. Turns out, all of that happy  _bullshit_  about how everything is suddenly roses now is just as Whizzer expected:  _bullshit_. She's miserable, and it's not going to get any better, and she _knows it._

But Whizzer isn't paying that much attention to Trina. He's looking at Marvin.

In the photograph, Marvin doesn't look miserable or scared. But then again, Marvin isn't looking at the camera. He's looking at the person  _behind_  the camera. He has a half-smile on his face, like he's trying hard to hide it, and his brow his furrowed and his eyes are soft.

And he looks like he's in love—with the _photographer_.

 _A tight-knit family,_ Whizzer scoffs to himself,  _what a load of shit._

:: - ::

Two days later, they’re hanging out at Marvin’s apartment like nothing happened.

“Come on,” Marvin goads, trying to drag Whizzer away from the television, “This is _boring_. Let’s do something else.”

Whizzer doesn’t take his gaze from the screen, though he does humor him, “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Marvin looks around the room, “Uh—I picked up a chess set from the pawn shop yesterday.”

“I don’t know how to play.” He refuses to feel stupid about it, though he feels Marvin’s surge of superiority slap him in the face.

“I’ll teach you.” Without even waiting for assent, Marvin rushes over to his bookshelf and slides the chess board out. Whizzer makes sure that Marvin sees his eye roll as he beckons Whizzer to sit at the kitchen table with him.

“You can be the white pieces.” Marvin says as Whizzer plops down in the seat across from him.

“How generous.” Whizzer says sardonically and tries to muster up the patience of a saint as Marvin condescendingly explains the rules.

“So,” Whizzer prompts as he blindly makes a move, “When are you gonna pop the question?”

“After graduation,” Marvin says, noncommittal, before he adds snidely, “You wanna be the maid of honor?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify the comment with a proper response, “It’s your move, Marv.”

Marvin takes another insufferable minute before he moves one of the pawns. Whizzer glances down and ponders for a few seconds before moving one of the pieces.

“You’re not even trying.” Marvin accuses, narrowing his eyes.

“Maybe I’m just better than you at it.” Whizzer counters, pressing, “Does that bother you?”

A hard look settles over Marvin’s face, but still he denies, “Even _if_ you were, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a game.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he continues pointedly, “You like playing _games_ , don’t you?”

“Not these,” Whizzer replies, his hand idly thumbing the king, “I like mine with higher stakes.”

Marvin doesn’t blink, “But what if you lose?”

“Then I lose,” He answers simply, “That’s the thrill of it, Marvin, the _uncertainty_. The rush you get by laying it all on the line with the chance of losing everything—it’s addicting.”

Marvin shrugs, Whizzer’s justifications lost on him, “I only play games that I know I'll win.”

“We both know that that’s not true.” Whizzer points out, smiling, “You’re playing one with me right now.” And he isn’t talking about the board between them.

Marvin looks away and takes his turn.

“It’s not the worst thing ever,” Whizzer tells him, staring down at the board, “To lose. You can always play again.”

“Not all games.” Marvin refutes lowly, “Some are limited time only.”

Whizzer shrugs, “Well, we’ve always been playing on borrowed time.”

“Maybe _you_ see it that way.” Marvin responds tightly.

Whizzer stiffens, the barbed words leaving his mouth, “ _You’re_ the one who’s cutting our time short. Not me.”

“Careful,” Marvin warns sourly, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I hurt your _feelings_.”

“Yeah, actually, you have.” Whizzer admits abruptly, slamming his piece down on one of the squares. He doesn’t look up at him, but he can feel Marvin staring at him—surprised, calculated, spiteful.

“I thought that this was just a game to you.” Marvin says coldly, “I mean _something_ to you but not enough. You only said that to—“

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Whizzer exclaims, dropping the calculated air of indifference, “You made me _care_ about you. Bet it made you feel _powerful_ , didn’t it? To get Whizzer Brown to fall for all your horseshit and actually believe that you gave a damn about me.

“You took me to nice restaurants and had me stay the night and asked about my day and invited me to your play and made me feel so damn special,” Whizzer continues harshly, and everything that he’s been keeping in and bottling up is flooding from his mouth, “And you really had me there, you know that? For a second, I thought that you would change and we could actually build something that isn’t only founded on secrets and fighting and getting off behind closed doors. And that was so stupid of me. You like to bend and alter everyone around you to fit your needs, but you never change yourself. You’re so _selfish_ , Marvin.

“I said that you _mean something_ to me because it’s the truth,” He scoffs, overwhelming disgusted with the both of them, “But that isn’t _good enough_ for you, is it? You want to mean _everything_ to me. But _that_ will _never_ happen.”

Whizzer still refuses to look up at him and gauge his reaction. He feels his thick emotion though, how it radiates off of him and gags the entire room. Marvin has taken the entire room by hostage and he hasn’t even said a fucking word yet.

Most of the time, Whizzer is not afraid of Marvin. He’ll punch walls and grab him too roughly sometimes and yell at Whizzer until he’s blue in the face, but those are just actions of a child having a temper tantrum. He doesn’t bother him when he’s loud.

It’s when he’s so angry that he falls silent. Whizzer hasn’t seen it often, but it’s been enough to recognize the signs and feel an ounce of fear settle in his gut. And he knows that that kind of rage—the cold, hateful, pure rage—is what Marvin is feeling right now.

“I did all those things because I’m in love with you,” Marvin says after a long, agonizing pause, unflinching, “And you’re trying to fault me for that? For being nice to you and hoping against hope that you could ever learn to love me back? You call _me_ selfish? _You’re_ the one who’s been using how I feel to get yourself off. _You’re_ the one who constantly reminds me that I am one of a dozen others. _You’re_ the one who took advantage of a closeted guy who had his entire life figured out and ruined everything because you _could_ —because you were _bored_.

“And _now_ you get pissed at me for trying to get my shit together and be there for the woman who is having my child. What did you expect for me to _do_? Break up with her anyway so I could still just be one of your many booty-calls?” He scoffs, shrugging, “Maybe I am selfish, but at least _I’m_ honest about it. You want to crucify me for wanting to have it all while _you’re_ trying to pull the same shit by wanting me to abandon my kid and girlfriend when you won’t even tell me that you love me!”

Whizzer lets out a shuddering breath, “That’s not what I’ve been doing.”

“So, if I did choose you,” Marvin challenges, “Would you choose me? Would you stop fucking other guys and make me dinner and kiss me goodnight and tell me that you love me?”

“No.” It’s honest—brutally so. And it makes Whizzer so shocked at himself, has him forgetting his plan and looking up at Marvin.

Marvin nods like he expected that answer, but he looks like Whizzer broke his heart by confirming it.

“ _Trina_ does all those things for me,” He says tightly, “Because she _loves_ me.”

Whizzer does things for him, too. He cooks for him and always gives him his honest opinion and calls Marvin out on his bullshit and challenges him to be better and encourages him to follow his stupid dream of theater and tries to get him to accept himself for who he is.

He does those things for him. Because he loves him.

Whizzer opens his mouth to say all those things, to admit it finally and let the two of them deal with the aftermath and what it means. They’ll stop fighting for now and try to let each other know things without saying them and figure it all out together. Because that’s what they do.

“It’s over.” Marvin declares evenly, cutting off Whizzer as he takes in a sharp breath to begin talking.

Whizzer feels like he’s just been drenched in kerosene, “What?”

“We’re _done_. I don’t want to see you anymore,” Marvin tells him, and he sounds so even and controlled, like he has no idea of what he’s saying, “I can’t do this. You’re too _damaged_ , Whizzer. I thought I could fix you and I still want to, but you’re _killing me.”_ Or maybe he does know what he’s saying. Maybe he just doesn’t _care_.

“ _I’m_ damaged?” Whizzer repeats, his breath stuttering, “You’re blaming this all on me?”

“Get out.” Marvin says coldly, standing up and turning his back to him, “Don’t ever come back. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Whizzer stands up, and his hand reaches for him out of reflex, “Marvin—“

“We’re _done_.”

And it’s all been said before, but it’s different this time. He feels the sincerity of the declaration choke him.

Whizzer loves him but that’s not enough now. Maybe it never was.

Whizzer does what he does best:

Without another word, he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao, who read that they were going to play chess and thought 'oh fuck'?  
> But yeah. They broke up. For good? Well, we'll see about that.
> 
> IF YOU CAN, GO SEE THE PROSHOT THIS WEEKEND. IT'S SO GOOD AND YOU WON'T REGRET IT. And then come and message me about it @moreracquetball on tumblr so I can scream about it some more.


	11. The Right Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that this isn't the last chapter.

As Mr. Total-Dick-Face flips through his submissions, Whizzer tries to seem flippant and bored, forcing his baited breath to even out and hiding the tremble in his fingertips by shoving his hands in his pockets. 

Throughout the showing, the professor's expression doesn't change, but Whizzer has been forced to deal with him long enough to know the significance of every eye twitch, every tightening of lips, every slight increase in blinking...

And so far, he doesn't hate any of his submissions. Key word being  _so far_.

Whizzer had shoved the piece he was most nervous about to the back, mostly due to the fact that Whizzer had included it in the first place only as a bold, impulsive decision at the last minute.

When it inevitably comes, Mr. Total-Dick-Face eyes the last selection carefully, analyzing each frame. Whizzer hopes against hope he's picking apart the style and technique more than the actual subject of the photo. He anticipates the critique when Mr. Total-Dick-Face finally tears his eyes off of it, bracing himself as the professor draws in a breath.

"Now  _this_  is what I'm looking for." And the bastard is  _smiling._ That probably hasn't happened since that dick Ronald Reagan was somehow re-elected. 

"I've been waiting for something like this from you," He informs him, ignoring Whizzer's stunned expression, " _Finally_ , a subject worth your talent."

Though he doesn't want to protest any praise whatsoever, Whizzer still has to  _know_ , "What do you mean? The subject is _bland_."

" _Bland_?" Mr. Total-Dick-Face exclaims, as if he's personally offended him, "Boy, have you even looked at the photograph you developed?" He smacks it onto his desk with a loud thud, gesturing him to look. Feeling Mr. Total-Dick-Face's expectant eyes on him, Whizzer dares a glance at Trina's scared expression and Marvin's love-struck gaze before he has to look away.

"This one has  _emotion, volume, character_." The professor stresses, "It's pictures like these that tell a  _story_. What do you call it?"

Whizzer's voice is strangled as he answers, "Tight-knit family." 

Mr. Total-Dick-Face nods, picking the photo back up and squinting at it, "These models are  _extraordinary_. Their expressions are so—so  _raw_. So  _genuine_. How on Earth did you find them?"

"They're not models. They're just—uh, friends of mine."

"And they don't mind being in the art show?"

Whizzer looks down and picks at his nails, admitting lowly, "I don't really plan on seeing them ever again, so."

Mr. Total-Dick-Face tears his gaze from the photograph, leveling Whizzer with a surprisingly thoughtful look, "So what are your plans then? Graduation is less than a week away, isn't it?"

Whizzer has already started to inch his way over to the door of his office, but still he answers airily, "I'm not the planning sort of guy. I just kinda... _go_ , you know. Just ride along and see where the wind takes me."

"A rolling stone," Mr. Total-Dick-Face supplies with a wry sort of smile, a knowing glint in his eye, "You seem like the type."

 _“I guess you’re one of those_ Too Cool Poseur _types.” Marvin had said scathingly, a sneer fixed on his face._

The memory hits him like a sack of bricks.

Whizzer tries to ignore the urge to just bolt, asking curtly, "So are they all approved then?"

"Of course," Mr. Total-Dick-Face  _smiles_  again, and it looks so bizarre and foreign that Whizzer just wishes he would  _stop_ , "Just in time for this Saturday. Are your not-models going to the show?"

Whizzer hasn't spoken to either of them since it happened.

"Probably," He answers truthfully, shrugging, "All of my friends know about it. It's, uh...a pretty big deal. To me."

"I'd love to meet them," Mr. Total-Dick-Face looks at the picture again, "To hear the rest of their story—the things that not even images can show." _No, you really don't want to know._

_Because it's a sad story—the kind that keeps getting bad and never gets any better; the kind that only has a few moments of happiness and lightheartedness but is overall fucking awful; the kind that no one really gets a happy ending._

"Maybe." Whizzer says vaguely, choking down the rest. He has his hand on the doorknob now, but just as he turns and opens the door, the professor speaks again.

"It gets  _boring_  after awhile—'seeing where the wind takes you,'" Mr. Total-Dick-Face says quietly, "Lonely, too."

But Whizzer is already gone, shooting out of his office and not looking back.

:: - ::

_The initial heartbreak is like a gunshot. It strikes him right in the middle of his chest, has him stumbling back against the railings with the shock of it. Blood gushes out of the hole in his chest, and it's so much red, so much red, so much red..._

_After Marvin kicks him out, Whizzer wanders around the city. He passes the library where he had held Marvin’s hand, the seafood diner that he'd ran into Trina, the court that they used to play racquetball, the fucking seven-eleven from that night when everything had changed._

_And Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before—when it was just fun, with mouths pressed against inner thighs and secret glances when out with friends and arguing for the sake of getting the other to take his pants off._

_But no, no, no, Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before even that—when they hated each other and it seemed like it would always stay that way, with mouths shooting off snappy retorts and pointed glares when out with friends and arguing just for the sake of hearing themselves talk._

_Whizzer wishes that Marvin had never kissed him that day. He wishes that he himself could have been smart and kind enough to not kiss Marvin back._

_But Whizzer doesn't dwell on past decisions and wrong choices. He refuses to lament on the past and instead keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead._

_Because he'll never be able to fix his mistakes but he can always run away from them._

_Whizzer always walks away. And he never looks back._

:: - ::

"We can make up some excuse," Cordelia suggests, "I'm sure I can think of something to keep them from going."

Whizzer sinks lower into their couch and idly thumbs the neck of his beer, shaking his head, "No. If they want to go, then whatever. It's not a big deal."

Charlotte gives him an impatient look, "Whizzer, stop it. It is a big deal."

"How are the soon-to-be newlyweds anyway?" Whizzer changes the subject, petty and bitter, "Sickeningly in love?" He's really asking  _How's Marvin?_ But he's too proud to admit it.

"Trina keeps asking about you," Cordelia informs him, as if he cares about  _her_ , "You know, I can't keep telling her that you've been bailing out of hanging out during our last week of college just because 'you're tired.'"

"Then tell her the truth," Whizzer suggests mockingly, "Tell her that I've been fucking her boyfriend for the last eight months. Also, maybe let her know that she's throwing her life away for a man who doesn't give a damn about her and would rather have meaningless sex with a guy he hates than ever even  _touch_  her without a half a bottle of whiskey in his system."

"Whizzer," Charlotte says exasperatedly, "You can't just keep avoiding them."

Whizzer snorts, " _Watch me."_

Charlotte and Cordelia share a pointed, all-too-knowing look.

"Look, I just don't care anymore." Whizzer tells them lowly, keeping his gaze trained on his beer bottle, "About  _any_  of it." He says those words with a strange amount of confidence for a man who had to drag himself out of bed and then had a full-fledged break down in the shower this morning.

:: - ::

The art show is the one thing Whizzer had been looking forward to all year.

It's the only university-funded event worth a damn, when photography majors can showcase their best pieces and demonstrate their technique and superiority. Whizzer himself has participated twice, once his sophomore and another his junior year. 

But it's  _senior_  year that Whizzer has always been waiting for. Rather than maybe getting one submission approved like the lowerclassman, seniors get essentially their own  _section_ , ten of their pieces displayed proudly on the cream-colored walls for all to see. They get individual praise and rounds of applause and admiration for all that they've accomplished.

And it's all that Whizzer has ever wanted. For his passion to be  _validated_ ; for people to stop calling it a  _hobby_ ; for somebody— _anybody_  to take Whizzer seriously for once in his entire goddamn life.

He’s always looked forward to this event. Until now. Because right now, as he’s waiting for Cordelia to get dressed while Charlotte tries to cheer him up, just the _thought_ of tonight makes Whizzer want to throw up.

And he hates Marvin now for a lot of reasons, but mostly because of _this_ —for taking this away from Whizzer, for coming there with Trina under the guise of supporting his “friend” and making it about  _him_  like he does with _everything_.

"I sent an invitation to my parents," He tells Charlotte as she fixes his collar, "It was dumb, really. I don't really expect them to come."

"Still, that's a very mature thing to do," She says, leaning back and smiling at him, "Good for you."

"Marvin suggested it." He doesn't know why he feels the need to share that, but it slips out anyway.

Looking at him, the smile dims from Charlotte's face.

"That night at the toga party, I was wrong," She admits slowly, watching as Whizzer cock his head in confusion, "I thought you were going to hurt him. I thought that it was all just a game to you and that you didn't care about him. I only defended Marvin when I should have defended  _both_  of you—from each other."

Whizzer nods, and though he promised himself he wouldn't do this, he asks, "How is he?"

"He's been better," She answers vaguely, adding after a moment of hesitation, "You didn't tell him that I knew."

"Are you kidding? He would've freaked the fuck out." Whizzer says, "I wanted to save myself the headache."

"He told me himself—about three days after you two broke up. I came over to help him build the carseat for the baby, and he just…broke down." Charlotte tells him, wry, "I had to look shocked. Luckily he was too much of a mess to notice I was faking it."

"Did he cry?" Whizzer blurts out, "Over me?"

"Yes. And it was not a pretty sight," Charlotte hits his arm, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not." He lies stubbornly, turning away from her.

"He misses you," Charlotte lets him know, and Whizzer hates how his heart flips at the news, "Every time he walks into a room, his eyes scour every corner of it. He's looking for  _you_. Always."

Whizzer thinks about the possibility of seeing him tonight, and his hands start to sweat.

"Are you telling me all this to get us back together?" He asks, genuinely curious as to why she's picked this moment to share.

"I'm telling you all this so you  _won't."_ Whizzer stiffens in surprise, "Whizzer, he's going to try to get you back; he told me so. I've tried to talk him about of it, but you know Marvin. Once he gets something in his head, it isn't easy to get him to forget it. So I'm asking  _you_ : don't. You know it won't be for the better of either of you."

Whizzer thinks about seeing him again, about the possibility of falling back into the unhealthy but comfortable routine. He can feel the ghost of Marvin's lips on his.

"I won't." He promises softly, but it sounds hollow.

:: - ::

Arms linked with the two prettiest girls in the world, Whizzer smiles and schmoozes everyone at the gallery, the champagne in his stomach and pride in his heart making him feel lighter than ever.

"You clean up nice," Cordelia praises him, patting him on the cheek, "You look grown up, even."

"Grown up, huh?" Whizzer feigns panic, hand going up to his hairline, "Is it already starting to recede?" 

Cordelia eyes him critically, mouth twisting, "Actually, now that you mention it—" She laughs when Whizzer scowls and hits her on the arm.

"Let her tease you," Whizzer stiffens at the sound of his voice, already turning around before he can even finish his taunt, "After all, it is your only physical imperfection."

Marvin hasn't seemed to change much. His skin looks a little ashen and there are rings under his eyes, but all in all, he looks unchanged, mostly due to the fact that he still has _Trina_ on his arm.

"Not even going to offer a simple hello?" Marvin points out wryly when Whizzer doesn't respond. He holds Trina like a shield, knowing that Whizzer's desire to protect her innocence overshadows his desire for a fight.

Whizzer sucks it up and smiles, though he looks pointedly at only Mendel and Trina when he says, "Hello. Glad you could make it."

"We wouldn't miss it for the world," Trina assures him and then further reminds him, "We've always went, after all."

"Though you now have a lot more pieces than before." Mendel steps up and studies the pieces on the wall next to them, "These are _incredible_. I really like the one with the moving car and the—" He stops abruptly, pausing, " _Oh_. I didn't know you included one with Trina and Marvin."

"What?" Trina and Marvin ask at the same time, pushing their way to the front. Even though he fully expected this, Whizzer's heart drops nonetheless.

Marvin looks at it for only a second before he has to look away, his face flushing red with anger or embarrassment, it's too vague to tell. Unintentionally, this makes him lock eyes with Whizzer. And in that moment, Marvin looks so... _betrayed_. 

But it isn't _Whizzer's_ fault, is it?  _Whizzer_  didn't ask to take their picture;  _Whizzer_  didn't tell them to look so miserable;  _Whizzer_  didn't make them miserable in the first place.

Whizzer is just the  _messenger_ , the  _photographer_. And so what? It's doesn’t prove anything. It’s just a picture. 

Though Marvin looks away immediately, Trina doesn't stop staring at it for a long time.

"That's not the picture you gave us." She says faintly, her tone and face unreadable. Her eyes are glued to the photograph, flickering from her own terrified face to Marvin's lovesick gaze directed at someone else.

"I took two, remember?" Whizzer says, trying to pawn off any of the tension, "I hope you don't mind." Trina finally looks at him then, and she  _knows_. She finally _knows_. Whizzer can see it in her face.

Every single one of them wait for her reaction with baited breath.

"Of course I don't," Trina says, steeling her face and voice as her grip on Marvin's arm tightens, "It's beautiful. It shows the beginning of our family. Wouldn't you agree, Marv?" She takes the easy way out, pleading ignorance. For the sake of her relationship. For the sake of her kid. For the sake of her future.

Whizzer is disappointed in her.

"Yes," Marvin is stunned, looking as if he was gearing up to be defensive, “Baby, you look, uh, very beautiful in it. Glowing, even." At the compliment, Trina looks like she's trying very hard not to cry. She kisses Marvin then, slow and sweet and not letting him pull away. And Whizzer watches the two of them, like _always_. He's the dark cloud over them, the shadow, the observer, the open secret.

"I'm going to get a refill." Mendel says pointedly, gesturing to his over half-filled glass

Whizzer downs the rest of his own in one fluid motion before saying breathlessly, "I'll join you."

Marvin forcibly breaks the kiss, but Whizzer is already walking away.

:: - ::

"How long?" Mendel asks bluntly.

"Eight months," Whizzer answers, dropping all pretenses, "It's over now."

"For you, maybe," He points out, a harsh inflection in his voice, "You get to leave him. Trina doesn't."

"She _can_. She _should_ ," Whizzer doesn't let Mendel's accusatory tone get to him, "She won't though."

Mendel looks like he wants to argue but he doesn't. Because it's true. It's Trina's worst flaw.

She wants to stay comfortable and docile, to never disappoint her Jewish, upper class family, to never take any  _risks_. And Marvin isn't a risk. Mendel—with his blue collar family and agnostic beliefs and hippie demeanor—is a  _risk_.

"Sometimes I wonder," Mendel says softly, a familiar ache in his voice, "If she had met me earlier. Before she met him. Would anything be different?"  _'Would she be with me instead?'_ He's asking. Whizzer refuses to bullshit him.

"Don't dwell on what if's," Whizzer tells him, "Don't dwell on her. Just—move on."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Mendel demands, always so protective of Trina. More than her own boyfriend is.

"Yes." Whizzer says tightly, refusing to admit that that tastes like a lie.

"It's so fucked," Mendel curses bitterly, "I can't even get one person to fall in love with me, and Marvin has _two_."

"Life isn't fair," Whizzer says, toasting to that, "So never whine about it. Just  _go_  and see where the wind takes you."

Mendel hums, shaking his head, "Even if I do, I think I'll always be chasing after her. I'll always compare her to every girl; I'll always hear songs that remind me of her; I'll always wonder about what she's going, how she's doing. I can't forget someone like that." His words cut through Whizzer like a knife, carving out his ribs to expose his trembling heart.

"Passion dies and love fades," Whizzer tells him roughly, "It's all just chemicals, isn't it? Come on; Don't be such a fucking romantic."

"You know, I always thought we had nothing in common," Mendel muses bitterly, smiling sadly at him, "But you're pathetic. Just like me."

The insult surprises him, coming from Mendel. Rather than lashing out, Whizzer just looks at him and doesn't say anything for a long time.

:: - ::

He avoids them all night after that and drinks more and more to forget the expression of raw betrayal and heartbreak on Trina's face.

An hour after it happened, Whizzer has snuck outside to the back of the building for some fresh air, sitting down on the cold concrete and leaning against the wall. At first, how Marvin finds him is beyond him, but then Charlotte's words come back to him. When Marvin enters a room, he always seeks Whizzer out in a crowd, never letting him escape his sight.

Wordlessly, Marvin sits down next to him, close enough that their knees touch. Even though he knows that he should move away and put distance between them, Whizzer doesn't.

They sit in silence for a long time.

"Nice picture." Marvin offers.

Whizzer sighs, "You're pissed."

"No," Marvin tells him, "Not really. It didn't end bad, after all."

"I knew she'd do that," Whizzer admits with a wry, sad smile, "Pretend she doesn't know."

"Yeah," Marvin breathes out, not sounding too happy about it either, "Me too."

"Charlotte told me you want me back." Whizzer says, seeing no point in keeping secrets. 

"Did she?" Marvin doesn't give him the same courtesy, still trying to keep playing these mind games.

Whizzer is disappointed in him, though he isn't surprised. After all, Marvin _never_ changes. Even if he's on the verge of losing it all.

"Why did you come out here?" Whizzer asks, "Hoping for a quick screw in the back of an alley?”

"I don't know," Marvin admits quietly, dropping the coyness, "I don't know what I want."

"Stop it. You know what you want," Whizzer scoffs, "You want it all."

Marvin looks away, doesn't deny it. They don't talk for another long, agonizing minute.

"You know, I've been thinking about what you said," Marvin breaks the silence, finally saying what he came out here to say, "About how even when you lose, you can always play again." He puts a hand on Whizzer's knee, just as Whizzer had done to him in the car all those nights ago. It's an invitation—to go back to how it once was, to keep lying to everyone and themselves and each other.

He's giving Whizzer a choice, like he always does. Because Whizzer has always said yes. Because Whizzer has always put himself before anyone else. Because Marvin thinks that Whizzer never changes either.

And before this very moment, Whizzer had thought all those things too.

Right now, Whizzer has a choice. And for the first time, he makes the right one.

"No, you were right," He says softly, the words tasting like heartbreak on his tongue, "Some games are limited time only."

Before Marvin can try to convince him otherwise, Whizzer stands up, brushes the dust from his clothes, and leaves him right where he sits—stunned and broken.

:: - ::

At graduation, they all put on masks. Marvin and Trina pretend to be a loving, hopeful couple. Mendel pretends to be the upbeat, happy hippie who’s excited for his two best friends. Charlotte and Cordelia pretend they don’t know more than they ever let on. Whizzer pretends to not notice how Marvin watches him,  _always_  watches him.

The ceremony is long and tedious. It's really a giant waste of time.

When it's over, they go to Central Park and have a picnic. They drink and laugh and reminisce and continually promise to keep in touch. The flippancy and hollowness of the farce brings blood to Whizzer’s mouth.

When everyone starts exchanging gifts, Marvin and Whizzer can't stop glancing at each other. Finally, it's their turn. 

Whizzer pays little attention to the careful wrapping, ripping it open and heart almost stopping when he realizes what it is.

"A chess set."

Marvin shrugs, "I thought you could use the practice." Whizzer has the inexplicable urge to both laugh and cry.

Instead of doing either, he just throws Marvin's present at him, stupidly nervous and shy about it.

"A baseball and baseball glove?" Marvin says bemusedly, brow crinkling in confusion.

"You've having a boy, aren't you?" Whizzer points out, "Trust me, he'll love baseball. I know _you_ hate it, but you should still at least toss the ball around with him."

"Thank you." Marvin says, sounding like he actually means it.

When Marvin smiles at him, Whizzer is helpless not to smile back.

How could something be so beautiful and so sad? Whizzer's hand itches to take a picture of all of them, to commemorate this day, these _years_ they’ve spent together. But he doesn't.

Because some moments not even a camera can capture entirely.

:: - ::

Whizzer has separated from the group under the guise of taking some picture of the setting sun. Really, he just couldn't stand to sit there anymore and pretend that no one knows anything and that everything is alright.

"Trina and I are heading out." Marvin says, coming up behind him. And this is it, isn’t it? Finally, their last call. Eight months of fighting and screwing and loving—and it all disappears into the void, as soon as Marvin turns his back and walks away.

It’s a fucking travesty. Whizzer doesn’t know why he ever expected it to end up as anything else.

When Whizzer turns around, he reflexively snaps a picture of him, desperate to suspend this moment in time.

Marvin blinks dumbly, stunned by the flash. He rubs his eyes and glares at him, though there’s no heat behind his words—only vague exasperation, "Asshole."

Whizzer shrugs, smiling flirtatiously at him, "You look good in this lighting, Marv." Whizzer still likes to pretend that he's above all of this, that he's not hurting too. Marvin doesn't seem to believe that for a second.

"Will I see you again?" He asks quietly, as if afraid for the others to hear even though they're yards away.

"No." Whizzer hates how he still has to affirm this, how Marvin still refuses to accept his answer. Marvin nods, like he expected this but still couldn’t help but ask, biting his lip and looking down.

Whizzer wasn't lying. Marvin does look good in this lighting. It softens the sharp angles of his face, making him appear younger, kinder.

And Whizzer wants to kiss him—one last time. He wants to close his eyes and lick his lips and sigh into his mouth and breathe him in. He wants to memorize the feeling that this man has given him, the love and ache of it all.

He doesn't kiss him. He just sticks out his hand for him to shake.

"Take care of yourself, Marvin." Whizzer requests evenly, warmth creeping into his voice despite all that he's done to him—that they've done to each other, "Please." Marvin takes his hand into his own, his grasp tender and apologetic.

Marvin licks his lips and asks quietly, "Do you regret any of it?"

"It doesn't matter," Whizzer says quickly, releasing his grip on Marvin's hand, "Just let it go." In all honesty though, Whizzer doesn't know for sure. Maybe he'll find out one day—when the pain is less raw, when the wound has healed over some. Marvin nods, tucking his hands in his pockets. They take one last long look at each other, the world around them falling away.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin knows he's the first man he'd ever loved. Whizzer wonders if Marvin knows that Whizzer is a hypocrite, that he hasn't let go himself. Whizzer wonders if Marvin regrets it.

But none of those things matter. Not anymore.

Giving him one last smile, Marvin turns and walks away, back to Trina, to his child, to his future. Whizzer doesn't watch him go, turning back around and snapping another picture of the sun as it bleeds over the horizon. 

And he keeps his gaze on the horizon. And he doesn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Whizzer didn't look back but Marvin did).


	12. Epilogue: The Horizon - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One, you read, Part ONE?????  
> Yeah, I was writing the last chapter, and this is like the halfway point, and I looked and it was clocking in at 8,000 words. So, for easier-readable reasons, I have decided to split it into two parts. Part One is more or less 'setting the scene,' so to speak with like what's going on with the characters now, what's changed, what hasn't, etc. Part Two will feature the story of Marvin and Whizzer way more heavily. 
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: The Epilogue takes place twelve years in the future.

It always amazes Whizzer just how little New York ever changes.

On and off for the last ten years, he's visited the city every other month or so—walking past old memories stitched into street corners and dive bars, dropping by old haunts, saying hello to old friends. The buildings change and warp and decay; the billboards never keep a certain interest for long; even the bus schedule changes every once in awhile, just to keep it interesting.

But all in all, it's still more or less the same—dirty streets and unsmiling people and a general feeling of being so small and insignificant in such a big and significant city.

Sometimes he resents the city's harsh consistency; other times, he's strangely comforted by it.

After checking into a hotel, Whizzer debates whether or not to call Cordelia and Charlotte right away. After all, he did come by to see them—well, more like to  _tell_  them. And possibly sleep on their couch for the next month or so.

 _Couch surfing,_ Whizzer thinks with disdain, ashamed at himself,  _Jesus, what am I? A college stoner?_

He stares at the phone for a long time before accepting that he _can’t_ call them yet.

Because that’ll make his situation more  _real_ , the repercussions of his actions having to dawn on him with full clarify then. And Whizzer doesn't think he can handle that just yet.

So rather than calling, Whizzer decides to distract himself—to throw on a jacket and walk around the city, making idle note of minuscule changes in familiar street corners.

Jesus, it's like nothing ever _really_ changes, does it? They can slap on a shiny new paint job on a building, but it's still the same shit palace that Whizzer had to live in like a malnourished, neglected child for the better part of his college years.

 _I fucked a guy there,_ Whizzer starts listing off in his head as a means to pass the time and occupy his thoughts, walking around and looking at all the apartment buildings,  _and there_ ,  _and there, and almost there if he hadn't tried to put on fucking_ Hootie and the Blowfish _before we were gonna fuck, but I fucked a guy there, and there, and..._

His gaze lingers when he gets to one of the nicer apartment buildings, a faint echo of pain igniting in his chest. All of a sudden, he's reminded of slamming doors and yelling in elevators and giggling in the soft glow of the refrigerator light and whispering half-hearted promises in between ragged breaths and moans.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin's old apartment is the same as he remembers it—spacious and messy; a safe haven and a battleground.

Shaking himself, Whizzer continues walking, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon. He doesn't look back at the building. 

But there's a part of him that wants too. Maybe there always will be.

:: - ::

He doesn't realize his feet has carried him to Central Park until he's standing on the ashes of the memories of that last day—the last sentence of that chapter of his youth. It's a little disorienting to look around and not see Cordelia frantically trying to keep flies from picking at her food, or Charlotte stealing kisses on the cheek from her exasperated but nonetheless pleased girlfriend, or Trina and Mendel huddled by a tree and talking quietly to each other, or Marvin plucking up the courage to walk over to him.

Youth. Ignorance. Selfishness. Whizzer doesn't miss any of it as much as he once believed he would.

He picks a bench under a shade tree to sit and watch the shrieking children and tired-looking adults, smirking at the parents' obvious exhaustion and ignoring the faint flicker of longing curling in his gut.

_Trina had smiled wryly, nudging his foot with her own, "Knowing you, you'll probably be somewhere in Europe while Marv and I change diapers in Queens."_

Whizzer did end up going to Europe for awhile. It wasn't as great and life-changing as all those movies promised him that it'd be.

In betwixt the hyper children and exasperated parents, Whizzer spies a young boy all by himself, neither parents nor friends seemingly accompanying him. He has a baseball bat poised in his hands (his grip too tight, his hands spaced too close together), and he keeps lobbing a baseball up in the air and swinging at it. Of course, the bat keeps slicing through nothing but thin air, the baseball always plummeting to the squishy grass.

And it's downright  _excruciating_  to watch, his technique so blatantly wrong that it makes Whizzer's skin crawl. Jesus, did the kid's coach not show him how to bat? If not his coach, what about his  _parents?_ Did they have no shame?

After a few frustrating minutes, Whizzer has to look away, try to push it out of his head before he has to go over there and show him how it's supposed to look. 

Because Whizzer might have already hit rock bottom but he _refuses_ to be the weird stranger that approaches little kids all alone and starts talking to them. _No thank you._ Not even if the kid's shoulders keep getting more and more slumped and his swing is getting less and less enthusiastic and there's something vaguely similar to a pout slowly encroaching on his facial features and—

Oh fuck it. Fine.  _Fine_. Jesus, if God is going to keep twisting his arm like that.

"You’re doing it all wrong." Whizzer says needlessly, strolling over to him and clipping his sunglasses to the collar of his shirt. 

The boy boggles at the strange man walking up to him, a suspicious glint in his eye as his grip on the bat tightens.  _Well, at least he's not naive._

"I'm not trying to trick you into my van," Whizzer tells him, "You just looked really pitiful. Come on. I know a way that'll make you hit the ball every time." The promise seems to convince the kid, his suspicion of stranger-danger seemingly giving way to the desire of accomplishing his goal. Reluctantly, the boy loosens his grip and hands him the bat.

"Watch my stance and grip." Whizzer instructs curtly, tossing the ball to him and readying his posture, "I'm only going to show you this once." He pointedly gestures to the spacing of his hands and the faint looseness of his grasp, and he makes sure the kid notices his lowered but firm stance.

"The best thing about baseball is that you don't even have to think about it—about _anything_ ," Whizzer tells him, eyeing the ball in the kid's hand, "Just keep your head in the box, and your eye on the ball, and take a deep breath and let it out, and  _swing_. Now lob it to me." The pitch is weak, but Whizzer manages to hit it anyway, smiling at the way the kid's wide eyes follow it in the air.

After the boy brings it back, Whizzer hands him the bat and tries to fix the kid's stance and grip as best as he can.

"Ready?" At the kid's hesitant but excited nod, Whizzer easily lobs the ball at him, breath catching in anticipation.

Not only does the bat cut through thin air, but his grip was so loose, the bat goes flying out of the kid's hand and almost bludgeons a yorkie puppy.

"Okay," Whizzer says faintly as he and the kid lock wide eyes, "This might take awhile."

:: - ::

It takes an entire hour, but finally,  _finally_ , after practice and practice and  _practice_ , when Whizzer lobs the ball to the boy, the wood of the bat smacking against the thread of the ball sounds off like a gunshot.

The two boys watch it shoot into the air, eyes wide and mouths agape. 

"Whizzer," The boy—Jason, he'd told him—breathes out, looking more dazed than happy, "I did it."

Whizzer has had his photography placed in galas throughout the country—hell, in other parts of the _world_ , even. And he doesn't think he's ever been prouder than in this moment.

"We have just earned ourselves very sugary, very over-priced ice cream cones from that very suspicious ice cream truck over there," Whizzer says with a breathless laugh, "My treat."

So that's how Whizzer ends up sitting on a park bench with a little kid, idly licking at his ice cream and wondering if this splurge of cash will prevent him from maybe just getting a cab ride back to his hotel. But still, even if he does have to walk all those blocks, he doesn't regret it.

"I think I needed this." Whizzer confesses quietly, forgetting himself. At Jason's raised eyebrow, he has to clarify, "Not to throw a pity party over here, but I kinda quit my job recently—as in, like, literally-two-days-ago-recently. And I just got off a very expensive flight this morning and I rented out a cheap hotel for only one night, and I guess I'm like technically unemployed and homeless now."

Rather than giving him pity, Jason just makes a face, "Maybe you should've let _me_ pay for the ice cream then." The wry bluntness makes Whizzer smile genuinely for the first time in weeks—months— _years_.

"No use in whining about it," Whizzer says, to himself more than Jason, "It's over now. No looking back."

"Why'd you quit?" Jason asks, curious.

"It got boring." Whizzer says, and it's the truth but it  _shouldn't_  be. There was nothing  _boring_  about his job—moving around, taking pictures for magazines, doing what he loves, never tied to any one place, being a _rolling stone_ like he'd always envisioned. It was like a dream, one that Whizzer never thought he'd ever want to wake up from.

"And lonely." He adds belatedly, an afterthought. 

As if on cue, a shirtless jogger breezes past them, and before Whizzer can remember there is a literal _child_ next to him, he noticeably follows that ass in those short shorts with vague interest.

Yeah, _and lonely_. Damn. It’s been a hot minute since he’d gotten laid.

"Oh, are you gay?" Jason asks all of a sudden, a thin vanilla mustache on his upper lip. The question is not shrouded in derision or disgust or ( _God forbid_ ) fear. Jason seems just  _curious_ , and though the art of tact and politeness are lost on him (as Whizzer is discovering), he doesn't seem like he cares too much about Whizzer's answer either way. 

And being gay is not necessarily something about himself that he _hides_ (at all); he doesn't unwelcome the curiosity. He's been asked this hundreds of times before, a lot of which being with even _less_ courtesy. 

"Word to the wise, Kid, you shouldn't be asking that question so bluntly to people you don't know very well. Some might not take it in stride," Whizzer prefaces and answers anyway, "But uh, yeah." His response doesn't make Jason shy away or flinch. He accepts it with a shrug, taking another lick of his ice cream.

He then offers up casually, "My dad's gay."

And—well.  _Alright._

Before he can suppress it, a huff of a laugh leaves Whizzer's mouth.

"Okay," Whizzer says, not really sure what to say to that, "Your mom must be thrilled about that."

"Oh no, she wasn't," Jason tells him, face scrunching up thoughtfully at the memories, "It kinda turned into a whole thing."

"I can imagine." Shaking his head in bemusement, Whizzer steers the conversation away from that bizarre tangent, pointing out, "Speaking of parents, where are yours anyway?" He pauses after a beat, adding, "I mean that question without  _any_  creepy, abduct-y undertones."

"They're all working," Jason informs him, shrugging, "Usually, my mom is home by now, but she had to pull a double shift or something to get time off to go to my baseball game this weekend." 

"Baseball game, huh?" Whizzer repeats, "That why you were practicing?"

" _Heather Levin_  is going to be there. Her little cousin is playing for the other team." Jason informs Whizzer lowly, and he says it like this is the most important news in the entire world. And of course, to a young boy with a crush, it definitely is.

"You'll knock it out of the park." Whizzer assures, "Just keep your head in the box, your eye on the ball..."

"Take a breath and let it out, and swing." Jason finishes, smiling a little, "Thanks, Whizzer." And there's something about that lopsided smile and tilt of the head in that very moment—something that knocks all the air of Whizzer's lungs.

Jason's smile fades, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Whizzer says quickly, looking away, "You just, uh, reminded me of someone." And now that he sees it, he can't  _un_ see it. The wavy hair, the brown eyes, the crooked smile...

"It’s getting late. You should really be getting home," Whizzer says abruptly, standing up, "Nice talking to you, Kid. And, uh, good luck with the baseball thing." He gives him a forced but hopefully not pained smile before he turns and tries to bolt, only to be stopped by Jason's hurried voice.

"Hey, you can come if you want!" Jason blurts out, causing Whizzer to pause and turn back around, "To my baseball game. It's only a couple of blocks from here, at Minnow Park—next to the jungle gym."

Whizzer blinks at the ludicrous idea of crashing a _little league game_ , "Thanks for the offer, but I don't really think I belong to that crowd." He imagines overweight, bad-tempered parents and weird uncles yelling from the stands at _little kids,_ a sick taste in his mouth.

Jason misunderstands his meaning, pointing out, "No, you're fine. My dad and my god-moms are going. Plus, this kid named Derek on our team has two moms, so. It's, like, not even a big deal."

"I meant the fact that I don't have a kid." At Jason’s eye roll and shrug, Whizzer sighs and asserts, “Jason, it’d be too _weird_.”

And it's a cop-out excuse, and Jason knows it. 

"My bad," The boy says, his voice clipped, "I just thought you loved baseball."

Whizzer looks at the boy's slumped shoulders and pitiful pout and is still distinctly reminded of Marvin.

"What time?" Whizzer tries to reason with himself that he's only agreeing to cheer the kid up, that it'd be good for himself to just go out and forget everything and watch a baseball game, that it isn't because the kid reminds him of some asshole who Whizzer _hardly_ even thinks about anymore.

Jason gives him that crooked smile again, and just like every time a smile like that is aimed at him, Whizzer is helpless not to smile back.

:: - ::

Whizzer calls Cordelia and Charlotte the following afternoon and asks to come over. When they bemusedly accept, he’s at their place in fifteen minutes flat, holding everything he owns in a couple of very stuffed, very expensive suitcases.

“And you didn’t have another job lined up before you quit?” Charlotte asks, ever the practical one.

Whizzer shrugs, “It was kinda like an impulse decision. Like, I was in Ohio and it _sucked_ , and I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Cordelia hits him on the arm, “Don’t blame this on Ohio.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, exclaiming to get a rise out of her, “ _Fuck_ Ohio.”

“I’ll get some linen from the closet and make you a bed on the couch.” Charlotte says, disappearing from their living room. Whizzer makes sure to shoot her a grateful smile before he leaves her sight.

“But seriously,” Cordelia asks, touching his arm, “What happened?”

“I told you,” Whizzer says, exasperated, but when she keeps looking at him for further clarification, he sighs and continues, “I don’t know. It just felt like…like I was always running away.”

“From?”

“Everything.” Whizzer sighs, quiet, “The only thing I had most days was just…me. And it just got to me, okay? I just felt alone.”

“Well, if you had just visited us more often, you would know that you’re not alone.” Cordelia reprimands, flicking him on the forehead, but she nods like she understands and Whizzer doesn’t have to explain any further.

“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Charlotte says grandly, coming back into the room and flopping sheets and blankets on Whizzer’s lap, “On Saturdays, I get the afternoons off, and Cordelia and I are cancelling all of our plans. We three are going out—like we used to.”

“We’re all over thirty,” Cordelia points out, “Will anyone even let us in anywhere after ten o’clock at night?” Charlotte takes this into account, looking vaguely unsure.

“Oh my God, you guys have turned _lame_ ,” Whizzer laughs and is about to list off some haunts of debauchery, “Okay, okay. First, we’ll—“ But then he remembers a lopsided smile and a reluctant agreement. His excitement dims.

“No, I can’t. I actually have plans that afternoon,” Whizzer says, and at their prompting expressions, he elaborates as little as possible, “I made a promise to someone. Raincheck?”

“You better not be blowing us off for a booty-call.” Cordelia warns.

 _I wish,_ Whizzer thinks about joking but ultimately decides to just change the subject.

Because it’s a little _pathetic_ , isn’t it? He’s going to a little league baseball game for a kid who he talked to _once_ for an hour, who probably doesn’t even _remember_ him anymore, who probably just felt _sad_ for him.

But. Whizzer can’t just _not go._ He made a _promise_.

And unlike some people, Whizzer always keeps his promises.

:: - ::

Whizzer doesn’t want to look sweaty or gross, so he opts out of walking and takes the subway. Then some kid apparently drops her five-dollar rabbit on the track somewhere twenty miles ahead of his subway car and Whizzer is stuck in limbo for an hour so the supervisors can save the damned thing.

He’s late and he’s pissed, and when he finally makes it to the game, the stands are surprisingly almost full.

Clipping his aviator sunglasses to his shirt collar, Whizzer glances quickly around the diamond and spies a morose-looking Jason playing outfield. From his posture and the scoreboard, it doesn’t look like Jason has impressed Heather Levin yet.

Whizzer tucks his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, hovering between the edge of the bleachers and the concession stand and uncommitted to just plopping down in a seat and enjoying himself. Weirdly, it hadn’t even occurred to him that—despite this outfit being one of the most casual ones that he owns—he still might have overdressed a tad bit.

Whizzer ignores his surroundings and focuses on the game itself, wincing and laughing (just a little) at the sheer awfulness of _both_ teams. At least Jason isn’t the _worst_ player on the team like Whizzer had assumed. Jesus, he imagines a _brisk_ would be less painful than this—

 _“Whizzer?”_ Someone behind him exclaims incredulously, and Whizzer is embarrassed that he doesn’t recognize the voice right away, stupidly turning around instead of running away, “Is that—What are you _doing here?”_

Whizzer forgets how to breathe.

New York hasn’t changed, but Marvin has.

He still has the same messy brown hair and wide eyes and long, angular face. But he certainly isn’t a scrawny college boy anymore.

He’s grown taller, _sturdier_. Where he was once lean and lithe—all _bones_ and _sharp edges_ , he’s now thickened out, has built some muscle and fat in a way that makes him seem so much _more_ than he once was. His waist is thicker and his chest wider and his arms—fuck, his _arms—_

Marvin hasn’t started declining in looks—not by a long shot. Because he’s petty, Whizzer is a little disappointed.

Whizzer’s tongue feels like it’s too big for his mouth, but somehow he manages to get a strangled, “Marvin.”

He always expected it to hurt somehow—to see him again. To be reminded of all the pain and the fighting and the heartbreak.

But right now, looking at him, it just feels like he’s floating.

“Whizzer.” Marvin breathes out inaudibly, and his lips would have been unreadable if Whizzer hadn’t spent the better part of a year studying that mouth and how it moves and forms words.

Marvin is wearing a ratty, red hoodie and old, baggy jeans, and he’s also gripping onto a half-eaten chilidog so hard that it’s become a mangled mess in his hand. It’s certainly a _look_.

Whizzer has to laugh a little bit.

Marvin smiles a little at Whizzer’s laugh, his throat working, before he realizes that Whizzer is laughing—you know, _at him._

He looks at him sharply, “What?”

“You really embraced that _dad_ aesthetic, Marv.” And that’s when it hits him—the reason that Marvin is probably here.

“Your son,” He says faintly, and oh yeah, now _there’s_ the hurt, “He plays, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Marvin responds, amending, “Well, if you can really call it _playing_. More like—sorta standing there and holding his mitt out.”

He’s trying to be funny, to make a _joke_ out of it.

It’s disgusting.

“It was good to see you, Marvin,” Whizzer says hollowly, turning around and already leaving, “Say hi to your wife for me.” But Marvin grabs his arm (thankfully not with the hand currently fisting a chilidog), forcing him to stay right there.

“I don’t have a wife!” Marvin blurts out, too loud and desperate. He starts talking really fast, “Not anymore, at least. I—Me and Trina…We’re divorced.”

Whizzer shakes his hand off of him but he doesn’t move. Not an inch.

“What?”

“We’re not together anymore,” Marvin says, “We broke up two years ago.”

 _Two years._ Whizzer thinks back to all the times that he’s idly thought about those two in that time, how he always thought—how he always _assumed_ —

“So she finally wised up and left your sorry ass?” Whizzer says unkindly, trying desperately to fill in the blanks. But that doesn’t make any _sense_. Trina would never leave Marvin, but then again Marvin would never, ever leave Trina…

“I divorced her.”

Whizzer stares at him, bewildered at the _stranger_ before him, “Why would you do that?”

“Whizzer, I don’t know if you know this,” Marvin says calmly, straight-faced with zero inflection, “But I’m _really_ fucking gay.” A corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s fighting back a smile.

Whizzer starts shaking his head because none of this makes any _sense_. Marvin would _never_ admit that—not so out in the _open_ , where people could be _listening_. Not even to _Whizzer_ , who he had been sleeping with and had actually drunkenly confessed once that even touching a girl makes him want to throw up. Not to his girlfriend, or his parents, or his friends, or _himself_ —

“So you’re still queer?” Whizzer jokes roughly, realizing that he’d been silent for over a long, anxious minute now, “I, uh—That’s, um—Good to know.”

They stare at each other, awkward and nervous.

“What are you doing here?” Marvin asks, echoing his earlier question.

“Some kid I met at Central Park asked me to come,” Whizzer admits, “I don’t know. He seemed adamant about it. I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Which one?” Marvin asks, offering, “I know both teams fairly well. I’ll be able to tell you if he’s a literal demon seed from Hell.”

“Uh,” Whizzer squints at the field, “Number thirty-two—the one currently looking at a pretty girl in the stands rather than looking at the ball.”

Marvin is quiet for a beat too long, and—with growing horror—Whizzer immediately guesses why.

“That’s Jason,” Marvin says belatedly, looking at Whizzer, “My son.”

Because _of course_ it is. _Of course._

“Huh,” Whizzer says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head and averting his gaze, “That’s a weird coincidence.”

Marvin hasn’t stopped looking at Whizzer, as if thinking that the only thing keeping him on this Earth is his trained, unblinking gaze.

“Come and sit with us.” Marvin offers finally after a moment or so of just _looking_. At Whizzer’s hesitant look, he puts on an encouraging smile, adopting that familiar little lilt in his voice when he’s trying to be cute in order to get what he wants, “Come on. Please? It’d be a shame if you’d make me admire your pretty face from afar.”

Whizzer should say no.

Whizzer doesn’t say no.

Exasperated but nonetheless complying, he lets Marvin lead him over to one of the bleachers, making them stop briefly so Marvin can throw away his mangled chilidog and wipe the gunk off of his hand. He’s surprised to see Charlotte and Cordelia there, and by their sudden wide eyed gaze when they see him, the feeling is mutual.

Absently, he notices that Marvin has been holding onto the crook of Whizzer’s elbow, his grasp so light and hovering, he would think the touch might be unintentional.

But this is _Marvin_ here. He never does anything without _intention_.

(And that reason, as Whizzer can’t help but also notice the way Marvin’s throat is working and he keeps staring at Whizzer and licking his lips, is pretty damn apparent).

“What are _you_ doing here?” Whizzer starts at the sound of _her_ voice, ashamed that he hadn’t even seen her there until she spoke.

“Trina,” Whizzer says faintly, the shame of all that he’s done to her hitting him all at once, “It’s good to see you.” Trina’s face is unreadable, but Whizzer can pick up faint senses of exasperation and disdain at seeing him again. Which, as Whizzer reasons, is pretty _fair_ , all things considering.

She’s holding someone else’s hand tightly and has an arm thrown around her shoulder, and Whizzer is both stunned and so incredibly delighted to recognize her new husband.

“No shit, you two _finally_ got together?” Whizzer exclaims, grinning ear to ear at Mendel and Trina, “That’s awesome! I’m so happy for you.”

The clear sincerity in his voice makes the disdain waver from Trina’s face—briefly.

“Thank you.” She says quietly, biting her lip and looking away. It’s clear that she’s finished speaking to him, and it’s a little rude but honestly she could have spat in his face and he’d have deserved it.

“Whizzer, sit in front of me.” Marvin demands, avidly gesturing for Trina and Mendel to scoot over (which they comply with exasperatedly, ignoring Whizzer’s look of apology) and plopping down in his own seat next to Charlotte. Whizzer gingerly sits down next to Mendel, but he makes sure to keep his gaze locked ahead of him and pay no attention to Marvin.

For a brief minute or so, regardless of the tension now in the air, Whizzer is left alone to gather his thoughts and promptly _freak the fuck out._

Whizzer wasn’t supposed to see Marvin again. That last day, he left all of it—the memories, the heartache, the love—behind, locking it up in a small box and ditching it over his shoulder. And all these years, he’s kept his gaze locked on the horizon, and he was _never_ supposed to look back…

Whizzer feels a feathery touch on his hair, and without even thinking, he slaps it away and looks back at the immature man.

Marvin tries to feign innocence, but one look at Whizzer’s scolding expression, he breaks out into a guilty (but so pretty) smile.

“I was just checking,” Marvin explains coyly, “Making sure your hairline was holding out.”

The comment makes an angry flush flood Whizzer’s cheeks.

“Don’t do that. Come on,” Marvin says, exasperated, “Even bald, you’d look good.”

Marvin reaches out again, threading his hand through Whizzer’s hair and messing up the hour worth of hair products that Whizzer dedicated to make it look just right. Whizzer tries to scold him and push him away, but right now the only thing he’s accomplishing is maintaining measured breathing. As Whizzer and Marvin lock eyes, he knows that they’re both thinking of the same thing—of Marvin pulling Whizzer’s hair all those times during sex, of holding him in place by his hair so Marvin can press tender, hurried kisses to his exposed neck and jawline.

Marvin pulls a little, and Whizzer bites his lip.

“Not wearing a wig, either,” Marvin comments lowly, smiling filthily, “Jesus, Whizzer, would it have killed you to gain a few pounds or lose some hair? You make the rest of us look so _old_.”

“Jesus, Marv, you’re at a _little league game_ ,” Trina scolds, snapping the two men out of their daze, “Keep it in your pants.”

 Marvin rolls his eyes but complies, releasing his grip on Whizzer’s hair. Quickly, Whizzer turns back around, but now that he’s reminded of all those times, he can’t help but think back to them—on Marvin’s bed, on Marvin’s couch, on Marvin’s floor, in the theater, in the library, in the Arby’s bathroom…

 _Stop. You’re_ not _doing this again. It happened, yeah, but it’s over now. You’re_ not _going back. You will_ not _make the same mistakes over again and then wonder why it still hurts the second time around. You will_ not _lose any more time to him._

Whizzer believes all of this, but when Marvin starts playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck a few minutes later, it actually feels kinda good and Whizzer doesn’t feel the harm in letting him do it.

:: - ::

Somehow, at the very final inning, Jason’s team has managed to catch up—almost, that is. The other team is winning only by two points, but it’s Jason’s team batting and the bases are loaded.

And it all relies on Jason now, who’s now up to bat after two outs.

He’s obviously nervous, and Whizzer can tell that his mind is racing with other thoughts (most of which probably involve that Heather Levin watching from the stands). His hands are too close together, and when the ball is tossed, his bat slices through thin air.

Whizzer belatedly notices that the entire field and stands has gone quiet.

The next strike is due to him looking into the horizon rather than the ball.

“Jason!” Whizzer didn’t give himself permission to speak, but the word rings through the park anyway. Wide eyed and flushed, Jason looks over at him, smiling a little once he realizes who it is. Whizzer taps his temple _(don’t think of a thing…)_ and gestures to his eye _(eye on the ball…)_ and pointedly takes a deep breath _(and let it out…)_ and—

_Swing._

The ball goes flying out to the outfield, stunning everyone into silence.

Jason stares at the bat, wide eyed.

The whole crowd thunders with the command, “Run!”

As if that was the permission he needed, he takes off, and the game ends with a surprising Blue Devils victory.

Whizzer looks over at Marvin, who’s watching Whizzer with stars in his eyes.

“What?” He demands, defensive.

“You’re incredible,” He murmurs, almost absently to himself, “You know that?”

At least one thing hasn’t changed about Marvin.

He’s still very, very _charming._

:: - ::

Whizzer sticks around after the game is over,  _purely_  just to get a chance to congratulate Jason. Of course.

As soon as he's able, Jason rushes over to his family, but instead of going in for a hug from his mom or accepting Marvin's pat on the back, he runs straight to Whizzer, wide eyed and panting.

"Whizzer, I did it!" Jason exclaims, "Did you see?"

"Why do you seem so surprised?" Whizzer says, smiling a little, "I told you that you could do it."

Jason smiles at Whizzer before focusing his attention on his father, who has been watching this exchange with an awed, disbelieving expression.

"Hey, so like," Jason starts nervously, wearing a pointedly charming smile, "Derek invited the entire team over to his house for a sleepover since it's like our first win in  _weeks_ , and I know the weekends are like our thing, but I was just—"

 _"Yes."_ Marvin agrees hurriedly, not even letting Jason finish, "Of course you can go. That'd actually be—" He darts a glance at Whizzer before quickly looking back at his son, "I mean,  _alright_ , I guess. If that's what you want to do."

"Thanks, Dad." Jason says, looking a little surprised at his eagerness, "Let me go tell Derek and then we can go home and get my stuff."

Like a ball of energy, he takes off again.

As soon as his son leaves their sight, Marvin cuts his eyes at Whizzer, clearing his throat and licking his lips.

Trina rolls her eyes, her voice tired more than anything, "So will I still be picking him up at your apartment Sunday night?"

Marvin seems unaffected by her ice, agreeing while maintaining an intense stare at Whizzer, "Yeah. I'll pick him up from that kid's house in the morning, so Jason and I can still spend Sunday afternoon together."

“Well,” Mendel says with an awkward little laugh, still the peacemaker of the group, “This has been really great—kinda feels like we’re ‘getting the band back together,’ so to speak. We should do this again sometime.” At his side, he’s discreetly grabbed hold of Trina’s hand, and just the touch of Mendel seems to wring the tension and exasperation out of his wife ( _Trina,_ Whizzer still can’t get over it, _Mendel’s_ _wife_ ).

“Sunday night.” Trina reminds Marvin firmly, and it’s so blatantly unlike Trina that it stuns Whizzer to silence. She used to be so docile, so mousy, so eager to please.

It’s incredible, he supposes, what twelve years can change.

They exchange much friendlier goodbyes with Cordelia and Charlotte before the pair wander off to say goodbye to Jason, leaving the four others to avert each other’s gazes awkwardly.

“The day’s still young, you know,” Charlotte says, looking pointedly at Whizzer, “Come on, Whizzer. I’m calling in that raincheck.”

Whizzer hesitates, thinking of all the circumstances—seeing Marvin again, his son staying over at another’s house, Marvin having an apartment all by himself for the day…

It’s like the universe is trying to get him laid. And Whizzer can’t just _not_ do what the universe so clearly wants him to do:

Bone Marvin. The universe totally wants Whizzer to _bone Marvin._

“Nah, you two can head on out. Raincheck still stands,” Whizzer says with a shrug, feigning casualness, “I’ll, uh…catch a ride with someone else.”

Cordelia presses her lips together. Charlotte shakes her head. Marvin _grins_.

Charlotte stares at Whizzer long and hard, as if wishing to change his mind. Finally though, she just sighs, saying curtly, “Fine. We’ll see you back at our place later.”

And then there’s just Marvin and Whizzer. Alone. For the first time in _twelve years._

“So,” Marvin says, “How long are you in t—“

“Stop it.” Whizzer demands firmly but not unkindly, “Don’t talk. You’ll probably say something stupid that’ll make me change my mind.”

Marvin looks more than a little offended but keeps his mouth shut until Jason bounces back over to them.

“I’m ready.” Jason tells Marvin, looking surprised that Whizzer is still here, “Uh, hi.”

“Whizzer’s going to ride with us.” Marvin tells him, not making the situation any less confusing.

“I knew your dad,” Whizzer elaborates, not missing the slight trace of panic on Marvin’s face at the mention of the past, “We went to college together, actually.”

Jason just makes a lighthearted _Hmpf,_ the significance of that time lost on him.

Whizzer can’t help but stare at Jason for awhile, trying to correlate this kid to the _thing_ that had been growing inside Trina. He just can’t even fathom the connection.

He’d demonized the baby back then. To Whizzer, it had only been a complication—a setback. But that was wrong of him to trivialize it.

To trivialize a _person_.

“That’s right,” Marvin affirms, putting a hand on Whizzer’s shoulder, “We need to catch up.”

Jason blinks, looking suspicious of how both men avoid his eye, “…Okay. Let’s just go then.”

And when Marvin and Jason— _his ex-lover and his ex-lover’s kid_ —start to walk to the car, Whizzer joins them.

Because that’s happening. Apparently.

:: - ::

As Marvin leaves to take Jason to his friend’s house, Whizzer walks around the empty apartment, not necessarily _snooping_ (okay, so maybe a little like snooping).

Marvin’s still messy apparently, clothes and trinkets strewn across the floors of every room. Books are hidden away in every crook and cranny (with a sick sort of smugness, Whizzer discovers that Marvin still keeps his nudie mags under his mattress—like a fucking thirteen-year-old). Marvin still leaves dirty dishes all around _except_ in the sink, and the shelves and higher-up surfaces look like they haven’t had a dusting in two years, and Marvin _still_ —to this _day_ , after more than twelve years—has that dumb, tacky Elvis poster hanging above his bed.

It’s so like his old apartment, Whizzer almost feels at home.

When Marvin finally comes back, Whizzer wastes no time, crowding him against the door and kissing him.

Marvin’s mouth is soft and warm, and just one kiss drives a chill from Whizzer’s bones that’s been there since he walked out of his boss’s office with his head held high and heart racing.

Whizzer kisses him once, chastely, before backing away.

Marvin’s eyes have already fallen shut, and his lips try to chase after Whizzer’s as he pulls away.

“What?” Marvin demands softly, opening his eyes again to stare mystically at him, “What’s wrong?”

It all feels so familiar, so second-nature. Whizzer remembers kissing him like that dozens of times before, whether to shut up his latest arrogant rant or to communicate feelings that he couldn’t with words.

He thought that it’d feel different—that it’d _be_ different. But it’s not. It’s the exact same.

Whizzer doesn’t know whether to find that relieving or troubling.

Whizzer kisses him again, rougher this time—with more desperation and _teeth_. Marvin buckles against him, letting out a low, guttural groan like a wounded animal. He slips his hands around Whizzer’s waist and grabs his ass, and it’s good—fuck, it’s _really_ good. Whizzer doesn’t so much as kiss him as devour him, his kisses quick and biting and prompting shaky, quivering noises to release from Marvin’s mouth.

Marvin breaks the kiss and turns his face to the crook of Whizzer’s neck, retracting one hand from the other’s ass to slip it down the front of Whizzer’s pants. When he touches him, Whizzer makes a sound so shameless and dirty, it makes Marvin flush even redder.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Marvin keeps repeating, laughing breathlessly, “I’ve missed that sound.” He rotates his wrist and makes Whizzer make it again.

“Take me to bed.” Whizzer says, _pleads_ actually, “Marvin, come on. Take me to bed and fuck me.”

At his demand, Marvin shudders, making a gasping sort of sound almost like he’s drowning.

“Fuck yeah. Okay,” He says shakily as Whizzer impatiently starts tugging Marvin’s pants down, the hunger between them so palpable, it’s all that they can taste, “Okay.”

:: - ::

Whizzer stumbles through Cordelia and Charlotte’s door, hair mussed and skin marked and expression pissed.

Charlotte doesn’t look up from the television screen, calmly taking a drink of her diet soda before saying, “You guys fucked for three hours? Jesus—learn to pace yourselves.”

 _“Two years,”_ Whizzer doesn’t let her dissuade him from his anger, continuing scathingly, “He’s been divorced and openly queer for _two fucking years?”_

Charlotte sighs, shuts off the television, and looks at him, “Yes.”

Whizzer stares at her incredulously, biting out, “And you didn’t think that’d be something I’d like to fucking know?”

“No, I didn’t,” Charlotte says evenly, “Because you had made me and Cordelia promise to never talk about him or Trina to you— _ever_.”

“That promise becomes null and void when Marvin stops being so— _Marvin!”_

Charlotte sighs again, rerouting the subject, “So what does this mean? Are you two dating now?”

 _“No.”_ Whizzer replies hurriedly, balking at the prospect.

“So it was just sex?”

Whizzer hesitates, “Yes.”

“And Marvin _agreed_ to that?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, pointing out lewdly, “Well, he never sounded like he was _complaining_.”

“Whizzer,” Charlotte says slowly, noticing his deflection, “You did _talk_ to him, right? After you two stopped screwing like rabbits.”

“Well, not exactly…” Whizzer withers under Charlotte’s critical gaze, “We kind just had a sex binge, and then when he fell asleep, I sorta…put all my clothes back on and left and came straight here.”

Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose, like she’s trying to delay a headache, “You’re just as bad as him sometimes, Whizzer, I swear to God.”

Whizzer gives her an offended look, “Hey, I’m not the one—“

He hears Cordelia’s phone ring in the kitchen, followed by the blonde’s panicked voice, “It’s Marvin.”

“Answer it.” Charlotte instructs.

“Cordelia, don’t you dare!” Whizzer yells.

The two lock eyes for a split second before both bolt to the kitchen.

As they bust through the door, Cordelia already has the phone pressed to her ear, “Oh, hey, Marv. What’s up?” A pause, and then her gaze flickers to Whizzer, “You’re asking if Whizzer is here?”

Whizzer hurriedly, enthusiastically mouths the word _No, No, No, No, No…_

“You know,” Cordelia says nervously, biting her lip, “He actually just walked in.”

Whizzer makes an audible noise of surprise and betrayal.

“Let me put him on.” Cordelia tries to hand him the phone, but Whizzer refuses to take it, pushing it away and stubbornly shaking his head.

Cordelia glares at him and stomps his foot, taking advantage of his momentary daze of pain and forcing it to his ear.

“Whizzer?” Marvin demands sharply, obviously pissed. Whizzer feels like he’s dying a thousand painful, slow deaths.

“Hey…” Whizzer begins but soon trails off, awkward, “… _you_.”

“Well, that was a dick move.” Marvin says scathingly, _finally_ sounding like the guy that Whizzer knows instead of that sweet stranger from before, “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, you don’t _‘do’_ sleepovers, right?”

Whizzer sighs, “Look, Marvin, what do you want?”

 _“What do I want?”_ Marvin repeats incredulously, “I want _you_ , Asshole.”

It’s a sucker punch to the gut, causes Whizzer’s heart to jump to his throat.

He stutters out, “Will you settle for a cup of coffee instead?”

:: - ::

“I want to get back together.” Marvin declares, not even waiting for Whizzer to sit down. Some bored looking college student from the table across from theirs shoots them a look, and Whizzer is sort of regretting scheduling them to meet at a fucking _Starbucks._

“Jesus Christ.” Whizzer says exasperatedly in response, taking a long drink of his overpriced coffee that tastes like shit.

Marvin looks at him, “Okay. That’s not the response I was looking for. Care to elaborate?”

“Marvin, look,” Whizzer sighs, trying to keep his tone as light and gentle as possible, “You meant a lot to me, okay? You _still_ do. I’m glad you got your shit together and stopped lying to yourself. Marvin, I am _so_ fucking happy for you.”

Marvin shrugs, looking a little put out, “Okay. So?”

“And I’m not saying this to be cruel,” Whizzer prefaces, staring pointedly at Marvin’s left ear because he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice firm and flat if he’d looked into his eyes, “But _us_? _Dating_? That’s _never_ going to happen.”

Marvin leans away from him, and Whizzer refuses to look at the heartbreak but he hears it in his voice, “I don’t understand. But we _literally_ just had sex. Like an _hour_ ago.”

“And I wanted to have sex with you,” Whizzer agrees, “But that doesn’t mean I want to have a _relationship_ with you. You should know that.”

Marvin says tightly, “So it meant nothing to you?”

“Not nothing.” Whizzer argues, “It meant— _something_. But not…you know, _that_.”

Marvin doesn’t say anything. Whizzer braves a look at him, bracing himself to see the heartbreak, the anger, the selfishness.

Marvin just looks like he’s _thinking_. Which is quite possibly worse than the three previous things combined.

“During all those years,” Marvin asks suddenly, "Did you ever think of me?" It seems off-subject, but really, maybe it isn't. Because the answer seems important to Marvin, even though it won't change anything.

Whizzer pauses, biting his lip, “Sometimes.”

“All the time,” Marvin says quietly, “I thought about you _all_ the time.”

Whizzer has to look away again.

“We can’t do this again,” Whizzer says tightly, “You not being out wasn’t the problem; it had just been a further complication to an already fucked up situation. This doesn’t change anything.”

Marvin looks like he’s sucking on a lemon, but he still says softly, “Okay.”

Whizzer continues, mid-launch into his speech, “Even if we try it again, it’d just end like it did before. We’d just waste each other’s time and both get our hearts broken. We’re too _different_ , Marvin. We like to fight too much, and we know each other too damn well for those fights to be even close to harmless, and we just want different things—“

“I know.”

“And it’s really just a matter of compatibility. It’s not just your fault, and it’s not just my fault. It’s—“

“Whizzer, I get it.” Marvin interrupts again, exasperated, “We don’t have to date again. It was just the preferred option.”

Whizzer isn’t even halfway done explaining.

“Just like that?” Whizzer demands, a little let down, “You’re giving up just like that?”

“I’m too old to be chasing after people who only want to be chased and not caught.” Marvin tells him tiredly, letting out a sigh, “If you don’t want to date, then fine. We can just be friends.”

Whizzer narrows his eyes at him, trying to calculate his angle, “Marvin, I also mean no friends-with-benefits either. We’ve been down that road.”

“I know,” Marvin says, rolling his eyes, “That’s not the kind of friends I’m talking about.”

Whizzer blinks, thrown, “You’re not?”

“Whizzer, you think that I only want you in my life so long as you’re sucking my dick?”

“Well… _yeah_.”

Marvin shakes his head, resigned, “Whizzer, do you even get how much you mean to me? Even after all these years?”

Whizzer notices at the sincerity in his face, the slight tremble in his voice.

“I thought I did.” Whizzer confesses softly.

“You were the first man I’d ever been with,” Marvin points out, “The only man so far that I’ve ever fallen in _love_ with. That means _something_ , doesn’t it?”

Whizzer can only nod.

“You weren’t my boyfriend,” Marvin concedes, “But you were _more_ than that. You were someone who I told my secrets and ambitions to and who I had fun with and who showed me things that I’d never thought I could have. Whizzer, at one point, you were nearly _everything_ to me.”

Whizzer feels his throat constrict, “So what’s your point?”

“I want you in my life,” Marvin says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “And if it’s only as a friend, well…I mean, not gonna lie, I’ll miss the sex.” He gives him a lewd smile, one that has Whizzer snorting, “But if that's what you want, then fine. I’m okay with that, I guess. Or—I'll learn to be."

“You want to be just friends?” Whizzer repeats, still unconvinced, “Marvin, we’ve never been _just friends._ We went from strangers to mortal enemies to sleeping together to—you know, the other thing.”

“Yeah,” Marvin says thoughtfully, “I guess we sorta skipped that stage.”

 They look at each other, both still amazed at being _able_ to look after so long.

Marvin sticks out his hand across the table, “Friends?”

Whizzer doesn’t know why the idea is so repellant to him, but he nonetheless still deflects rather than try to figure it out, “Can you really ever be just friends with someone whose penis you can draw with anatomic, precise accuracy from memory?”

 _“Whizzer.”_ He shouldn’t be allowed to say his name like that, quiet and tender and pleading.

Why is Whizzer so reluctant? This is keeping his gaze on the horizon, isn’t it? Not letting the past cloud his future. Not letting his previous heartbreak cloud a new chance of having someone important to him sewn back into his life.

Whizzer accepts his hand, echoing softly, “Friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So??? Is it good??? Please validate me???  
> (I was kinda nervous that a time jump would be cliche, but without it, I couldn't end the story like I want to).


	13. Epilogue: The Horizon - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to make the epilogue a Three-Part Mini-Opera.

Breathless, Whizzer brushes his hair back with his hand, rolling his shoulders and trying to mask his wince at the pleasant-but-aching burn of his muscles. He feels the sweat make a thin ring around his hairline, a few droplets sliding down his forehead and sticking to his eyelashes. Spitefully, he thinks back to his younger days, when he could run laps around this place and not even break a sweat. Now, more than ever, he feels his old age like a slap to the face. His only solace is that at least he's faring better than Marvin, who's panting so hard, he might seriously be having a heart-attack.

And even still, Whizzer doesn't make it easy on him, pointing out snidely, "Hit your shoe."

Marvin nearly collapses on the court, cutting his eyes up at him and whining, "No, it _didn't_."

"Come on, you know it did." Whizzer pushes his glasses down and wipes the sweat from his brow.

He doesn't think his sweaty self would look particularly attractive, but then he notices Marvin watching him unabashedly—eyes dark and throat working—before he abruptly looks away, remembering himself and their promise. The attention makes Whizzer preen, even though he should be discouraging it at all times.

Ignoring his own slip up, Marvin clears his throat and says airily, "That's not nice." And Whizzer lets him off the hook, pretending not to notice again when he reaches down for the ball and feels Marvin's eyes locked on him.

Whizzer tosses the ball to him, responding with a smirk, "Hey, you should be used to losing by now."

"I'll have you know, I'm usually an _excellent_ player. You just always throw me off my game," Marvin claims petulantly, a ghost of a smirk on his face as he pointedly looks at Whizzer's ass, "You've always been so— _distracting_."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, ignoring the faint pang of interest as he lightly smacks Marvin's shoulder with his racquet, "Stop flirting."

But Marvin just shrugs shamelessly, "What?  _Just friends_  can't compliment each other on their best features?"

Whizzer just snorts, relaxed with the knowledge that Marvin is just flirting just to flirt—because that's always been apart of their banter, even when they had hated each other. Tossing lewd comments or innuendoes at one another just seems natural between them, and though it had also been great when Marvin had been flirting to get into his pants, today's harmless flirtation is just as amusing to him.

"I think I've lost twenty five pounds through sweat and just the general feeling of despair." Marvin says, always the one to call the game off, "We should call it a day before I start puking up organs."

Whizzer crinkles his nose, "Lovely imagery." He looks down at his watch, making note of the time, "You still have about thirty minutes before Trina drops Jason off. What do you wanna do?" 

He makes the mistake of looking too long at Marvin when he's like this—red-faced and sweaty and gasping for breath. It reminds him of  _those_ times, of grasping at the sheets and clawing at his back and moaning into his shoulder. 

And Whizzer suddenly thinks of what  _he_  would like to do for those thirty minutes, the lurch in his stomach one of raw, unrepressed need.

But Marvin doesn't seem to have fucking in the gym's showers in mind, seemingly thinking it over and innocently suggesting, "I need to pick up some groceries. Jason always eats me out of a home every weekend."

Blaming his sudden flush on the exercise, Whizzer clears his throat, remarking, "Boring."

"What else is there to do?" Marvin demands, and well, Whizzer can't say what he would  _rather_  do, right? Just friends may be able to 'compliment each other on their best features,' but they probably can't freely admit, _I would really like you to fuck me so hard, I lose my voice from screaming your name._

"We can go to the store that has all those free samples." Marvin bargains, sounding like  _such_  a dorky old man and tearing Whizzer out of his fantasy.

"I hate how much free samples excite me," Whizzer admits, trying to distract himself from his stuttering heartbeat, "Ugh, I'm so poor."

"Have you still not found a cheap enough place yet?" Marvin asks as they walk through the gym, depositing their racquets and glasses into the bin.

"Nope," Whizzer says, "But I've only been working for a month, so."

"Yeah, as a _family photographer_." Marvin never passes up the opportunity to tease him about it, "I remember you being  _too_  good at that."

"You know, in hindsight, that was  _such_  a douchey thing to do," Whizzer says thoughtfully, recalling to that day at the gala, "Like, how  _petty_  of me."

"You being petty? How out of character." Marvin jokes, chuckling as Whizzer shoves him a little bit.

"You two done already?" The gym receptionist—Whizzer hasn't bothered to remember his name; he just silently calls him The Guy Who Will Not Stop Staring At Marvin’s Ass—calls out from his desk, stopping the two men just as they were about to push open the door. He's clearly addressing only Marvin, having already stopped caring about Whizzer ever since he found out that he and Marvin were Just Friends.

Marvin just gives him an absent smile, "I've already embarrassed myself enough for today."

"You just need to work on your reaction time," The receptionist says with a leer, ignoring Whizzer's obvious, dramatic eye roll, "Just let me know, and I can help you on that."

Marvin just smiles awkwardly and waves, never taking him up on the offer. It delights Whizzer every time, if only to see the gym receptionist's smile and shoulders drop at the nice rejection. 

As they're walking through the parking lot, Whizzer says, "You should fuck him. Have pity on the poor kid." 

Marvin balks at his bluntness, and Whizzer keeps forgetting how much of a  _prude_  he still is about certain things. 

"The kid is, like,  _twenty years old_." Marvin exclaims hurriedly, seeming uncomfortable at the turn of conversation, "And  _not_  my type."

Whizzer raises an eyebrow, mocking, "Oh, so you have a  _type_?"

"Yeah," Marvin gives him a pointed look, "Big-haired, mean-spirited pretty boys."

Though the comment makes his stomach flop pleasantly, Whizzer plays off his blunt remark with a scoff, "That's  _everyone's_  type."

Marvin huffs a laugh, and because he still never knows when to stop and drop something, he asks, "What's your type then?" It's a stupid, pointless question to ask, and it just seems weirdly uncalled for, given their history and all that Marvin already knows about Whizzer. Marvin _knows_ his type already, but he still asks it. Because he's fishing for a _certain_ answer, one that would assure him that Whizzer is just as silently miserable at being _just friends_ as Marvin noticeably is.

And Whizzer could answer this question in many ways—the slutty  _any man who buys me a drink;_ or the coy _men who have cruel smiles and nice hands;_ or the honest _the unattainable sort of men;_ or the pointed _the type that lets you hold them and kiss them but never keep them; the type that will always say that they love you and they may very well even mean it, but they'll never be willing to meet you halfway._

"Big cock." Whizzer says suddenly, locking away his prior thoughts on the off-chance that Marvin will be able to still read them on his face, "That's a necessity."

Marvin makes a disgusted, put out face, "That's  _crude_."

He shrugs, "What did you expect? Sex is crude."

"It doesn't have to be." Marvin argues and his gaze shifts a little out of focus, as if he's recalling a memory that makes a half-smile pull at his lips, "Not always."

Whizzer thinks about asking about who taught him _that_ —if he was nice, if he was the one who had finally convinced Marvin to stop living a lie, if he was somehow  _better_  than Whizzer in any fashion. The need to  _know_  grapples with the intense, irrational burst of jealousy and betrayal at the thought of Marvin with anyone else. It's stupid that he still cares, that he still cares _enough_ to be so petty about it. Because Whizzer isn't a shit-head, naive college student anymore. He's an  _adult_ , for fuck's sake. When the hell is he going to actually start acting like one?

"I'll help you pick out somewhat healthy food that Jason will actually eat if you swing by a diner and buy me a milkshake." Whizzer says, abruptly changing the subject.

Marvin rolls his eyes, "You're really making me  _bribe_  you to hang out with me?" 

"I'm never cheap, Marvin."

"Well, not in  _that_  sense of the word." At Whizzer's sharp look, Marvin throws his hands up, defending, "It was a  _joke,_ Whizzer. Not an insult." But even still, it takes Whizzer back to all the  _fighting_ , the snide  _remarks_ , the mean  _name-calling_. It reminds Whizzer of the crueler side of Marvin, the one that would use his sexual activity as a quip, as extra fodder for an argument, as a way to demean Whizzer, as a power play to make him feel small.

"I'm sorry." Marvin offers when he notices that Whizzer hasn't responded, and at least that's changed. He apologizes now—more often, more sincerely. It's nice, but Whizzer isn't quite sure if it negates the gibe made in the first place.

Whizzer just changes the subject, like he always does. He looks at Marvin's clunky mini-van and screws his face up in distaste, remarking, "You traded one eyesore for another. And you know, I almost prefer the ugly truck."

"I'll have you know, this has the best gas mileage of all the cars made in this year," Marvin reminds him,  _again_ , " _And_ it got me promoted to Head Chaperone for Jason's Little League team."

Whizzer laughs a little, teasing, "At least it complements the  _dad bod_  you have going on." His joke comes out wrong and sounds a little bit mean. Marvin's obnoxious smile dims a little and the skin around his eyes tighten, and Whizzer belatedly supposes that the sentiment "you have the body of a middle aged father" isn't universally taken as a compliment.

Which is a _crime_. Because if Marvin looks like the typical middle aged father, then  _hot damn._ That should be the official Most Aspired Look of the Year.

"I didn't mean it like that," Whizzer assures hurriedly, trying to mask his awkwardness with a pointed grin, "Come on, Marv, you know how _sexy_ you are. You're still _totally_ my type." But even though Marvin looks a little pleased by the compliment, he has a look of warning on his face.

"Stop flirting." He laughs a little as he scolds, but he doesn't seem like he's joking.

Whizzer throws his earlier words in his face, " _Just friends_  can't compliment each other on their best features?" His eyes flicker pointedly to Marvin's crotch, and just because he does it as a gag, it doesn't take away from the fact that he wouldn't mind at all if Marvin decides to take it seriously.

"Whizzer." He warns again, but this time his voice is clipped. And that isn't  _fair_ —that  _Marvin_  is allowed to flirt and leer and watch, but  _Whizzer_  isn't allowed to do the same?

But Marvin has always had double standards. Whizzer shouldn't expect that to be any different.

"What?" Whizzer challenges, looking him dead in the eye.

Marvin doesn't take the bait, doesn't pick a fight—which is still disorienting, "What kind of milkshake do you want?"

It's so weird—being  _just_   _friends_.

Not bad. Not good. Just—

 _Weird_.

:: - ::

Weeks later, Whizzer is lounging on Marvin's bed, legs crossed and arms stretched out behind his head. Across the room, Marvin is holding out old, tacky articles of clothing, looking annoyed every time that Whizzer says, "Trash."

"You keep vetoing all of my wardrobe like this, and I'm not going to have any clothes except the ones on my back." Marvin says tightly, but he stuffs the ugly sports jacket in the trash bag anyway.

"Stop complaining. You  _asked_  me to help you clean out and update your closet." Whizzer reminds him, adding, "And now that you mentioned it, make sure to throw the ones you have on in the trash pile later as well."

Marvin looks affronted, "This is a _vintage_ Spider-Man teeshirt. Do you know how much this thing is worth in mint condition?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Whizzer says with a sigh, "I constantly bemoan the fact that nerd culture has invaded mainstream fashion. It makes me feel so _dirty_."

Whizzer's phone suddenly buzzes, with a beckoning text from one of his newly acquired booty-calls. Though it is a little tempting and causes a flicker of interest to flood Whizzer's system, he ignores it,  _purely_  on the principle that he's helping all of society by wasting his own time and making Marvin update his wardrobe. And besides, the guy may be a good fuck and all, but he isn't a great conversationalist. At least  _Marvin_  was fun to talk to in addition to giving Whizzer a good time in the sheets.

And _fuck_ , he _really_ needs to stop comparing all his hook-ups to Marvin. Seriously, he thought he beat that habit out of himself _years ago_.

"Is that about the place in Queens?" Marvin asks, obviously trying to discreetly put a few shirts into the Keep pile without consulting Whizzer.

Even though Marvin knows that Whizzer sleeps with other guys, it's uncomfortable to bring up, and Whizzer really doesn't want to ruin the light-hearted atmosphere that they've been cultivating all day.

So Whizzer lies by omission, "I am  _not_  taking that place. And if _that_ is the only kind of place I can afford, I might as well stay on Cordelia and Charlotte's couch for another four months."

"They'll be glad to hear that." Marvin says pointedly, as if Whizzer didn't already know that his presence has taken a toll on their lives—no matter how much Cordelia and Charlotte politely swear otherwise.

Whizzer groans, placing his forearm over his face, " _Fine,_ I'll give it a chance. Hell, maybe I can even get one of the huge rats I saw scurrying across the floor to help pay the rent."

"Or you could move in with me."

Which. Okay. _What?_

Whizzer _calmly_ uncovers his face, _calmly_ sits up, and _uncalmly_ says,  _"Come again?"_

"You're here all the time anyway." Marvin points out hurriedly, staring at the rack of clothes and refusing to look at him, "And I have that extra room next to Jason's that I've been using as storage. If you're willing to clean it up and buy your own mattress, then it's yours."

"Marvin," Whizzer says, "You know I can't afford to pay even _half_ of the rent for this place."

"I'll cover the rent. The money isn't an issue." Marvin says, and at least he doesn't seem to _mean_ for it to sound arrogant. He darts his eyes at Whizzer and looks relieved that he doesn't seem _completely_ averse to the idea—if just a little reluctant.

"I don't  _need_  a roommate, but you  _need_  a place." Marvin continues, and when he notices that Whizzer is still thinking of the money, he adds, "If you want to pitch in, you can pay for, like, groceries and stuff."

" _Groceries_?" Whizzer repeats incredulously, narrowing his eyes at him, "You're telling me that you'll let me crash here _rent free_ , and all I have to do is  _buy trail mix and milk every once in awhile?"_  

"I'm also open to payment via sexual favors." Marvin jokes, trying to ease the tension with a lewd smile. But Whizzer can hardly get over what he's  _offering_ , can hardly pay attention to anything else other than trying to figure out just what Marvin's angle is here.

Because Whizzer isn't  _naive_. He  _knows_  Marvin, and he  _knows_  that—despite that good guy, _"I've changed and yes, of course we can just be friends"_ persona that he's been surprisingly somehow maintaining the last four months—Marvin doesn't do  _anything_  without an angle, without  _intention_.

Or hell, maybe Whizzer is just being paranoid. Maybe Marvin is just offering to help out a friend down on his luck. 

But Whizzer isn't  _just_  a friend to Marvin. Sure, they like to pretend, but the truth of the matter is that Whizzer  _can't_  be.

Because Marvin isn't  _just_  a friend to Whizzer. 

He's more than that.  _They're_  more than that.

"You really think that's a good idea?" Whizzer demands tightly, resisting the urge to immediately agree straight away, "You and I, living together. You don't think that'll be...I don’t know,  _complicated_."

Marvin shrugs, defending, "I've had worse ideas that have worked out just fine."

"Like?"

"Agreeing to be just friends with you." Marvin responds coyly, throwing one of his ugly shirts and hitting Whizzer straight in the face.

His voice muffled by the cheap fabric, Whizzer murmurs, "Well, the jury's still out on that one."

:: - ::

Whizzer moves in with Marvin because he doesn't have to pay rent and he can't afford any place else and he knows that Charlotte and Cordelia desperately want him off their couch. It's not an easy decision made—it's one that takes long conversations with Marvin and gentle encouragement from Cordelia and Charlotte and explicit permission from Jason and hours-long deliberation in his own head at two in the morning because he can't sleep on that fucking couch with its springs digging into his back like that. 

So yes, Whizzer moves in with Marvin, even though he knows it's a terrible idea. This mirrors his decision to agree to be _just friends_ with Marvin, even though he knows that that was a terrible idea.

It should be pointed out that it is generally accepted as universal knowledge that Whizzer doesn't make the best decisions in life—especially when those decisions relate to a certain asshole who drives a  _mini-van_  and unironically goes to  _Starbucks_.

:: - ::

Whizzer is surprised at how _easy_ it is to live with Marvin.

He had always imagined that it’d be _suffocating_ —that Marvin and his giant ego would never leave enough room for anyone else to occupy the same space. Whenever Whizzer imagined the possibility of living with Marvin, he’d imagine Marvin looming over him every second of the day and guilt-tripping him into doing all the housework and making him abide by every single weird, anal rule and regulating any and all behavior as soon as he stepped foot inside the apartment.

Because that’s how Marvin had treated Whizzer in college every time he’d spend time over at his place. Hell, back then, he could hardly take a piss before Marvin would get impatient and bang at the door, whining for him to hurry up.  It had been annoying and frustrating, and so when Whizzer had agreed to move in, he’d fully expected to be moving out by the end of the month.

But then again, he’d been expecting to be living with the _old_ Marvin, the one that would only feed him breadcrumbs and then expect Whizzer to give him the entire fucking loaf.

Living with _this_ Marvin is different. He mostly stays out of Whizzer’s way and actually _asks_ if he wants company rather than just assuming that his presence is always welcomed; he never asks him to pick up around the apartment and actually looks _surprised_ each time that Whizzer does (because after all, Whizzer is _not_ living in some _pigsty_ ); he doesn’t make Whizzer tell him everywhere that he’s going whenever he leaves the apartment—hell, he rarely even _asks_ , except when he wants Whizzer to stop by the store and pick up some groceries on the way back home.

 _Home_.

Jesus, Whizzer has only been living there _three months,_ and the word already seems oddly fitting.

Living with Marvin, sharing a _home_ with Marvin, is easy. They eat breakfast and dinner together, and they watch shitty cable television in the evening, and they bicker about weird domestic things like the electricity bill (Whizzer’s fault) and the mysterious dent in the living room wall (Marvin’s fault), and they entertain Jason on the weekends, and it’s all just so—

 _Domestic_. So disgustingly, repellently, achingly _domestic_.

And Marvin is still the same asshole that Whizzer remembers. He’s prideful and stubborn and unintentionally condescending and so frustrating that sometimes Whizzer just wants to bash his head in.

But he’s _different_ , too. He knows when to back off from a fight and freely apologizes when he knows that he’s fucked up and listens to Whizzer’s point of view and stops himself when he realizes that he’s making Whizzer feel small.

And there are other things that have stayed the same— _nice_ things. Marvin is still sweet and devoted and hilariously unfunny and _kind_ , and he does little things—like always letting Whizzer pick what to watch on television and taking care of him when he’s sick and ordering his favorite take-out when he’s had a bad day—that reminds Whizzer of why he fell in love with him all those years ago.

And Whizzer can feel it happening all over again—the soft smiles, the chest fluttering, the longing stares when they think the other isn’t looking, and he must be half-crazy at this point because he weirdly doesn’t want to _stop_ it—even though he’s been down this road before and knows the unhappy ending that awaits him.

:: - ::

“He wore _tights_.” Whizzer whispers loudly to Jason, laughing at how Marvin squawks in protest.

“It was _spandex_ , I’ll have you know.” Marvin argues, the alcohol in his system causing him to slightly slur his words. It was a night of celebration—Marvin had received a big promotion at his firm; Jason actually got Heather Levin’s phone number; Whizzer got a very big tip from one of his clients—and Whizzer had decided to pick up a cheap box of wine from the store. Jason is slowly nursing a pepsi while Marvin and Whizzer have promised to pace each other on drinking, but Marvin seems to still be a light-weight—even after more than ten years of experience.

“That’s _worse_.” Whizzer laughs, and Marvin just looks over at him with stars in his eyes. He’s usually more discreet than this, but the wine has dulled his inhibitions. He’s been looking over at Whizzer like that all evening now, growing bolder as he’s sipped more and more alcohol. Marvin isn’t drunk by any means, but he’s happily buzzed, enough so that he keeps forgetting just what he and Whizzer have been hiding ever since both of them collectively realized that this whole _just friends_ thing isn’t working.

“This was in college?” Jason clarifies, politely keeping up with the story even as his face seems glued to his phone.

“Yeah,” Marvin answers, grinning like a fool as he raps his knuckles against the kitchen table, “It was a—a weird time in my life.”

His phrasing almost offends Whizzer, enough to make him prompt a little snottily, “ _Weird_ , huh?”

“The _best_ time of my life.” Marvin clarifies quickly, cutting his eyes up at Whizzer to give him a significant look. Whizzer should look away. Whizzer doesn’t.

“So, you two were good friends?” Jason suddenly asks, causing both men to remember themselves and break eye contact. Whizzer notices that Jason is paying full attention to them now, his phone laying forgotten on the table as he stares pointedly at the two men sitting across from him.

“No, I don’t think we were,” Marvin says honestly after a beat, “That’s what caused the problem.”

“What was the problem?”

There’s a short but uncomfortable silence that over falls the kitchen.

“So Heather Levin, huh?” Whizzer prompts with a clearing of his throat, “Is she just a pretty face or does she actually have a brain?”

:: - ::

That night, as Whizzer is lying in bed and trying to go to sleep, he feels a tentative knock at his door. Wildly, he thinks that it’s Marvin, but then a small, younger voice says through the door, “Whizzer?”

Whizzer tries not to make his disappointed sigh audible as he pointedly shoves all his dirty hopes and aspirations of a late-night fuck out of his mind, “Yeah, come in.”

Jason walks into the darkened room and closes the door behind him, making the whole scene oddly ominous. Whizzer reaches over to his bedside table and flicks the lamp on, letting the soft glow fill the room.

“What’s up, Kid?” Whizzer asks, sitting up in bed.

Looking hesitant but adamant, Jason opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally sputters out, "You guys don't have to, like— _pretend,_ you know. Just because I'm here."

Whizzer furrows his brow, “What do you mean?”

“Whizzer, I’m not an idiot,” Jason says haughtily, sounding so much like Marvin that it makes Whizzer smile, “I know you and my dad are— _you know_.”

Whizzer just stares at him.

“I know you two are _together_ or whatever,” Jason finally comes out with it, looking a little embarrassed but continuing, “So you don’t have to pretend like you’re just friends and sleep in different rooms when I’m here. I won’t tell, like, Mom, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even though she already knows.”

Whizzer continues to stare at him, but this time, it’s without confusion. Instead, right now, he just feels— _uncomfortable_. And embarrassed.

“Jason, come here.” Whizzer pats the foot of his bed, and Jason comes and sits down immediately.

Whizzer takes a minute to himself, trying to decide on just what’s _his_ to tell and what’s Marvin’s right to keep to himself if he wishes. But then he looks at Jason, and he realizes that Jason shouldn’t be _lied_ to—even if only through omission.

“Your dad and I, uh—dated, I guess you could say. In college.” Whizzer begins, awkward, “But we’re not dating anymore.”

“But I thought he dated Mom in college.”

Whizzer winces, “Yeah. He did.”

It takes a moment for Jason to get what Whizzer means.

“ _Oh_.” Jason looks down at the floor, his brow furrowed, “That’s a pretty asshole thing to do.”

“Yeah, it was.” Whizzer agrees, belatedly scolding half-heartedly, “Hey, _language_.”

Jason turns and looks at him, asking, “But you’re not dating right now?”

“No.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Well, you two act like it. _All the time_.”

Whizzer sighs, “I know.”

“So is there, like, a _reason_ you’re not dating and just acting like it?” Jason asks after a pause, always too damn _curious_.

Whizzer hates how it takes a second too long to remember the reason, “Because I don’t want to date him.”

Jason mulls over this answer thoughtfully.

“So you’re just— _leading my dad on?”_ Jason comes to this revelation, looking over at Whizzer sharply, “ _Cut it out.”_

The sudden hardness in Jason’s voice startles Whizzer, has him speaking his mind without careful deliberation and word choice, “Jason, it’s not—it’s not like that. It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not.” Jason argues stubbornly, “My dad wants to date you; you _know_ that; and you’re _knowingly_ acting like you want to date him, too. That’s called being cruel.” And now _that’s_ a novel notion— _Whizzer_ is being cruel to _Marvin_. Just the idea of it makes Whizzer stiffen and recoil, his defenses shooting up and loosening his tongue.

 “ _I’m_ cruel?” Whizzer repeats without thinking, incredulous and scathing, “You have _no_ idea what he was like back then. Marvin was a complete _asshole_ —to _me_ , to _Trina_ , to _everyone_. He was _selfish_ and _mean_ and he took _so much_ from me and never gave up anything in return. And he _knew_ he was hurting me, and he didn’t _care_ —Or, he didn’t care enough to stop.

“And _sure_ , now he’s all _rainbows_ and _dad jokes_ and _doe-eyed admirer_ , but am I really supposed to just _forget_ everything that happened before? _Hell no_. Just because it happened in the past doesn’t mean that it doesn’t _matter_ anymore. Fuck that _horizon philosophy_ shit—It still _matters_.” The rush of anger leaves him immediately, being replaced with horrified contemplation.

“Doesn’t it?” Whizzer genuinely asks, looking to this _twelve-year-old_ as if he has the answer.

But Jason just looks at him, stunned and slightly horrified at his outburst, before he just bemusedly shrugs.

“Jesus,” Jason exclaims, “I thought _my_ love life was complicated.”

Whizzer laughs a little because if he didn’t, he’s afraid he might start crying.

:: -  ::

Living with Marvin is _easy_ , so long as Whizzer never allows himself to swoon at the way his hair looks in the morning before he’s brushed it and Whizzer always keeps his distance even when they’re just sitting on the couch and Whizzer never watches Marvin endearingly try to connect with his son in any way possible and Whizzer always looks away when Marvin smiles softly at him for seemingly no reason at all and Whizzer never plays along with one of Marvin’s stupid gags until both men burst out laughing and Whizzer always resists the nightly temptation to crawl out of the bed and slip into Marvin's bedroom across the hall.

Living with Marvin is _easy_ , so long as Whizzer is committed to never falling in love with him again.

They’re lying on the couch on a lazy Wednesday evening, and though Marvin is watching the dumb movie that Whizzer picked out for movie night, Whizzer is only watching Marvin. All the lights are out in the living room, so Marvin is illuminated in the soft blue glow of the television screen. Whizzer remembers doing movie night before—years and years earlier. But _those_ movie nights had always ended with one or both men’s pants down, and _these_ movie nights end with an awkward, yawn-filled goodnight before each of them retire to their separate rooms.

Whizzer prefers the former movie nights, when they could get off and not worry about what it meant or what it would eventually lead to. He misses the recklessness, the complete abandon of morals and fear of consequences. It’s all so _complicated_ now.

Or, maybe it was always complicated. Maybe it was never as easy or trivial as Whizzer likes to naively remember through rose-colored glasses.

Marvin reaches into the bowl that acts as a barrier between them and stuffs his face with popcorn, chuckling a little at some inane scene that Whizzer isn’t paying any attention to.

And _this_ is why Whizzer has to always look toward the horizon—because looking back leads to nostalgia and sadness and the overwhelming desire to recapture the past.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin really has changed all that much. If he would be able to resist Whizzer if he leaned over and kissed him.

Whizzer grabs the bowl just as Marvin reaches down for more, placing it pointedly out of reach. And now Marvin is staring at him, confused and oblivious to the panic and screams in Whizzer’s head.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Marvin asks, and then Whizzer kisses him.

It’s been six months since that baseball game, since Whizzer last kissed him and tore him apart. But as soon as Marvin gets over the initial shock and starts reciprocating, it feels like no time has passed at all. Marvin still feels so _good_ pressed against him, warm and sturdy and safe. Hurriedly, Whizzer breaks the kiss long enough only to help Marvin strip off his shirt, and then Whizzer pushes him back to lie down flat on the couch. He shifts his body and braces his knees to rest on either side of Marvin’s hips, and even though the couch is sorta small, it manages to fit both men.

Whizzer attacks the side of Marvin’s neck with his mouth as his nails scrape lightly down his toned torso, loving how both sensations makes Marvin buckle and pant. Marvin takes a fistful of Whizzer’s hair and leads his lips back to his own, swallowing Whizzer’s needy groan when he shifts upward and grinds their lower bodies together shamelessly.

“Whizzer,” Marvin whispers against his lips, and Whizzer suddenly notices that he’s smiling, “If you were bored by the movie, we could’ve turned on something else.”

But Whizzer doesn’t want _banter_ or _taking their time_ or _sweet, giggling sex_. He wants it _rough_ and _fast_ and _dirty_ —like it _used_ to be.

"Come on," Whizzer says lowly under his breath, biting Marvin’s lower lip as he slips a hand down Marvin’s pajama bottoms, "Let's just have some fun tonight." He meant his words to sound seductive, flirty, enough to make Marvin agree and just let Whizzer take the lead for once.

But it has the opposite effect.

Marvin suddenly stiffens underneath him, and Whizzer feels the man’s excited, hopeful smile fade from his face.

Whizzer knows he messed up, so he tries to fix it. He kisses Marvin harder, thrusts against him, tries to bring back the mood.

But Marvin turns away and shakes his head, his voice cold, "Stop it."

 _“What?”_ Whizzer demands petulantly, reluctantly pulling back, “What’s wrong?”

And in the blue glow of the television, Marvin just looks so _sad_. And it devastates Whizzer that he somehow made him look that way.

“You don't mean it." Marvin says simply in explanation, the words soft and heartbroken.

Whizzer’s gaze flickers pointedly down to his own crotch, “It _really_ seems like I do, Marv.”

“No, you don’t mean it like I do.”

It’s a trap, but still Whizzer can’t help but ask, “And how do _you_ mean it?”

“Whizzer, don’t play _dumb_ ,” Marvin accuses roughly, glaring at him, “You know I still love you.”

Whizzer feels his chest explode and stomach drop. This moment is everything and nothing like he wanted it to be.

“Just forget it then.” Whizzer says stiffly, getting off of Marvin and standing up, “I’m sorry.”

He goes to run away to his room but Marvin won’t let him, demanding just as Whizzer starts to turn away, “Whizzer, why did you kiss me?”

He somehow manages to keep his voice steady, but he still sounds unconvincing, “I was bored. The movie sucked.”

_“Whizzer.”_

“I don’t know, okay?” Whizzer exclaims sharply, throwing his hands up in the air, “I just got—confused, I guess. I thought you wanted to, too.”

“Of course I _want_ to,” Marvin says incredulously, “But it can’t be just for fun anymore. We’re not kids. We’ve moved past that.” And something about that last sentence just sets Whizzer off. It makes him immediately become angrier, crueler, more willing to hurt.

“ _Have_ we?” Whizzer demands, startling Marvin, “Because it sure as hell still feels like the same _shit_ as before.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Oh, come on. _Don’t play dumb, Marvin,”_ Whizzer echoes his earlier words, "The ‘innocent’ suggestion of playing _racquetball_ again? The _moving in_ proposal? The bringing me home _food_ and _little gifts_? The _movie_ _nights_? You’re not trying to be _just friends_. You've been trying to trick me into a _relationship_ —just like you tried to do before." He expects a slight shift of gaze in guilt or the immediate defensive argument, some sort of reaction from Marvin that will prove his claim.

But Marvin just stares at him for a second, horrified and devastated.

"Jesus, Whizzer, how _low_ is your opinion of me?"

Not very low at all, actually. Whizzer thinks that Marvin is a good father, and that he tries to be a better person at every opportunity, and that he’s a hell of a lot a better man than he once was.

But that doesn’t change the fact that Marvin is _inherently_ selfish. And when he wants something, he doesn’t stop until he gets it.

"I'm not trying to _trick_ you," Marvin denies heatedly, pulling his pants back up over his crotch and standing up, "Hell, all I've been doing is trying to be what _you_ want me to be: a _friend_. Are you seriously telling me that you don’t trust me?”

“Yes.” Because that doesn’t make _sense_. That isn’t _like_ Marvin.

Marvin has _never_ listened to what Whizzer wants. Sure, it may seem like he’ll have Whizzer’s interest at heart—inviting him to a play, kissing him in front of strangers, asking if he wants him to break up with his girlfriend—but he’s _always_ working some sort of _angle_ , some sort of way that _he_ gets to benefit.

And twelve years isn’t nearly enough time to unlearn that kind of behavior, that _selfishness_ woven into his very core.

At his answer, Marvin’s eyes darken and his posture changes, and he finally looks like the Marvin that Whizzer had known and that he had both loved and hated.

"You like to talk a big game, don’t you?” Marvin says, coldly, “That ‘no regrets, no looking back, keep-your-eyes-on-the-horizon’ kind of deal? _Bullshit_." His loud, brittle words makes Whizzer flinch, but Marvin doesn’t care and continues, “That’s a load of _bullshit_ , Whizzer, and you know it. Because _you’re_ the one who can’t let go.

“Hell, you won't even let _me_ let go.” He points out, scoffing, “What, so you're still trying to _punish_ me for the terrible shit I did to you over a _decade_ ago? Well, _congratulations_. I hope the revenge has been worth it.”

Whizzer shakes his head, “Marvin, that’s not what I’ve been doing.”

“You’ve been _testing_ me,” Marvin says, oddly sounding both sad and hateful, “You don’t think I realized that? You want me to prove this preconception in your head that you’ve built up for _years_. You think everyone else is capable of change _except me.”_

Whizzer stays silent, not answering. Marvin looks a little broken.

"Then what are you still _doing here?"_ He demands roughly.

Seeing him shattered like that, it takes awhile before Whizzer can find his voice, and even when he does, it’s small and broken, "Maybe I want you to prove me wrong."

"Bullshit. I've _been_ proving you wrong," Marvin points out, "You want me to prove you _right_."

Whizzer doesn’t argue. Because it’s true. All these months, he’s been holding back, keeping his distance, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s always been comparing Marvin to his past self, making note of all the differences and consistencies. He’s taken every shred of evidence that Marvin has changed and disregarded all of it entirely, and he’s put emphasis on each flaw that bears just an echo of resemblance to the man that threw him out in the middle of a chess game and tried to sleep with him in the back alley while his pregnant fiancé was left all by herself staring at a portrait of an unhappy family.

It’s impossible to disconnect these two men: the one that threw him out, and the one that gave him a place to stay. The one that constantly manipulated him, and the one that is willing to play along to anything Whizzer wants.

Whizzer realizes that these last six months have been nothing but him chasing the past, him trying to get some sort of retribution for past heartbreaks or some indication that he didn’t make a mistake that day at Central Park when he didn’t look back.

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer says softly, and he means it, “I—I think I should go.”

At his words, Marvin reels back, the anger flickering from his face.

 _“No,”_ Marvin says hurriedly, looking _panicked_ at the thought of Whizzer leaving—as if convinced he won't come back, “Stay. You don’t have to—to _go_.” But Whizzer can’t be here right now, not with _those_ eyes pinned on him—judging him, _daring_ him. He can’t be here at this suffocating apartment, where nothing and everything has changed and two different men—one he hates, one he adores—keeps flickering in and out of Marvin’s desperate, dark expression.

The room is spinning and his heart is pounding and suddenly Whizzer just can’t _breathe_.

Distantly, he realizes that he may be having a panic attack.

“I need some air.” Whizzer somehow makes it to the door, but he feels Marvin just a step behind him, as if unwilling to widen the distance.

“Whizzer, stop.” Marvin says firmly, _desperately_ , “You can’t just _leave_ again. Are you—Are you coming _back_?”

Whizzer hardly even pays attention to the words spewing from Marvin’s mouth, but when he finally wrenches the door open and starts to leave, he hears one word from Marvin very clearly, “ _Please_.”

Whizzer usually knows when to pick his battles, but this isn’t one that he’s willing to surrender himself. He doesn’t stop, and just before he closes the door, he hears Marvin suddenly turn cold and scathing, obviously trying to mask his own panic, “Fine. Go— _run away_. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been _good_ at anyway!”

Whizzer makes it as far as the stairs before he just collapses under the staircase between apartment floors. He huddles in a corner and hugs his knees to his chest and _breathes_ until his ears can finally pick up something other than the sound of his heart _shuddering_ and _racing_ and _breaking_.

:: - ::

He doesn’t know how long it takes before he’s finally calmed down but it feels like hours. Eventually though, he regains his sense of time and place, and he realizes that he left Marvin all alone at that suffocating, empty place. A part of Whizzer wants to just bolt and wander the streets until the sun rises, but he ends up going back to the apartment, shakily unlocking the door and trying to prepare himself for the onslaught of shouts and berating that Marvin has been undoubtedly penning up.

When he walks back into the apartment, Marvin is seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, and he looks both older and younger all at the same time. The impossible sight almost manages to steal Whizzer’s breath away again.

Marvin immediately jerks up and rises to his feet when Whizzer enters and closes the door behind him. He looks stunned that Whizzer came back, even though he did say that he’d only left to get some air.

“What are you doing here?” Marvin asks tightly.

Whizzer tries not to shrink under his searing gaze, answering evenly, “What do you mean? I live here.”

His answer breaks Marvin, and suddenly the stone-faced man dissolves.

He walks quickly across the room and crowds Whizzer against the door, kissing him and clutching onto him desperately. The action shocks Whizzer, and it takes a couple seconds to get over the surprise and push him away, “Marvin, what are you doing?”

“No, you were right.” Marvin assures, pressing light kisses to Whizzer’s chin and cheekbones and eyelashes, “Let’s just have some fun tonight.”

But that’s _reckless_ , and Marvin had been right. They weren’t _kids_ anymore. They couldn’t just do terrible things and then not expect consequences.

 _“Marvin.”_ Whizzer says, and he means it as a warning but it somehow ends up sounding like a plea.

“Whizzer, please,” Marvin feels so good pressed against him, and he kisses Whizzer deeply, and Whizzer knows from experience that Marvin is very, very good at helping him forget, and Whizzer wants to forget everything right now, “You’re all I want. _Please_.” Marvin sounds starved for _anything_ , so when Whizzer finally rests his palm against his cheek and starts kissing him back, Marvin nearly collapses in relief.

“Okay.” Whizzer says and kisses Marvin again, reckless and already aching with the consequence of it, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is currently 2am and I have spent off and on five hours editing - adding scenes and cutting scenes and rewriting scenes - and I'm still sorta unhappy with it. I don't like how I characterized Jason and the last scene with the fight could be written better, but I am lowkey tired and I really just think that I've just stared at it so long and reread it so many times that I'll hate it no matter what.


	14. Epilogue: The Horizon - Part III

When Whizzer wakes up, he has arms clutching onto him and his head is resting on another's chest. He panics for a split second—disoriented and confused—before he feels a faint spark of recollection, the sound of the man's heartbeat as familiar to him as an old, forgotten but beloved song. Whizzer relaxes against Marvin and ignores his thoughts of realization and dread, even though he really shouldn't. He should be trying slip out of the man's embrace; he should be tiptoeing back to his own room and just pretending this never happened; he should be running away, keeping his gaze on the horizon and never looking back and never remembering how Marvin's arms had always felt so safe and warm and calming.

Whizzer should do a lot of things, but he does none of them. In the soft glow of early morning, his sleepy eyes flicker around Marvin's bedroom, a room of which he's only been in a scarce amount of times. It is still so unmistakably  _Marvin_ —with his idiotic, cringey posters and messy piles of junk on the floor and unorganized, overstuffed drawers. But still—it's different, too. There's a desk of papers with big numbers on them, and there's a calendar on the wall with several dates circled and written over, and there's pictures of Jason—a couple when he was just a little toddler with a curly head of hair, one where he's on a stage holding a certificate, a few in his baseball uniform—decorating the room in subtle, unabashed devotion to the kid.

Marvin is alike enough for Whizzer to recognize him, but he's different enough to make Whizzer terrified of him, of what might happen again and again and again if he lets himself be deceived and think that anything could ever be different enough for it to change.

Marvin's soft snores are muffled by Whizzer's hair, and he holds him so tenderly, so lovingly. And Whizzer lets Marvin do something that he hasn't in a long time.

He closes his eyes and lets Marvin hold him.

:: - ::

When Whizzer wakes again, the bed is empty and cold, Marvin leaving nothing but a faint impression in the mattress next to him.

:: - ::

Whizzer tries to bring it up gently, but Marvin rebuffs him and continues on like normal, as if their  _just friends_  policy hadn't been shattered and scattered on that kitchen floor. It's an immature move, and Whizzer is weirdly comforted by the fact that Marvin doesn't  _always_  surprise him now.

And they're playing the game again, even though Whizzer had already decided that it had been a limited-time-only sort of deal. Each day is a chess match, with both men playing sloppily almost as if they're trying to see which one could lose the fastest and in the most self-destructive way possible.

After a week, Marvin is the one who tries to sit down and talk about it, but Whizzer has already become addicted to the game again and doesn't want it to end. He pushes Marvin against the wall and kisses him, and they end up having sex on the living room floor. It's dirty and desperate, and it leaves a taste of blood and heartbreak on Whizzer's tongue.

They _should_ talk. _Whizzer_ wants to talk. _Marvin_ wants to talk.

They don't talk. They fight and fuck and occasionally hint at their feelings. 

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. 

Everyone knows how the story goes; everyone knows how the story ends. They've both been given a second chance to make different choices, but for the life of them, Marvin and Whizzer just can't stop looking down the barrels of each other's guns and waiting for the other to pull the trigger.

:: - ::

Marvin finds the circled apartment listings on the living room coffee table because Whizzer placed it there for him to find. It's morning now, and Marvin has to get to work. They can't fight now but they will, Whizzer knows. Marvin will yell and shout and fight for him to stay, and Whizzer will yell and shout and then inevitably stay because Marvin asked him to. They know the game and they know their lines and they know what roles they have to play.

Whizzer is drinking his tea at the kitchen table when Marvin comes in and smacks the newspaper down on the surface, the sound like a gunshot. Whizzer calmly takes another sips and then looks him dead in the eye.

But, to Whizzer’s surprise, Marvin doesn't look angry. He doesn't look hurt. He looks...

Tired. Resigned. 

"The one on page three is promising." Marvin says, flat-voiced, "I can help you cover the rent until that asshole boss gives you the raise he promised."

Whizzer just stares at him, wide-eyed. Because this—this isn’t how the game is played.

"You want me to move out?" He asks, strangled. 

Marvin has bags under his eyes and a vague look on his face. He looks old and tired, and Whizzer wonders if he solely made him that way.

Whizzer suddenly feels overwhelmingly ashamed of himself.

"Whizzer, I already told you," Marvin says, horrifyingly calm, "I’m too old to be chasing after people who only want to be chased and not caught." Whizzer belatedly places the vague look on Marvin’s face.

It is one of a man who is ready to let go.

Gripped with shock and fear and denial, Whizzer doesn't respond and walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Marvin doesn't ask him to wait, to stop, to stay. 

As he walks away, Whizzer doesn’t look at the horizon. With each step, he keeps stopping and turning his head and looking back, expecting Marvin to still—without fail—to chase after him.

But the only thing chasing him is the past, and Whizzer refuses to let that actually catch up with him.

:: - ::

"Whizzer." Mendel says with a furrowed brow, pausing at the doorway of his home and staring at the wild-eyed, haunted-looking man.

"You were right." Whizzer says hurriedly, choking on the words, "It's never been over. After college, I always thought I'd just been _running away_. But maybe I  _wasn't_ , you know? Maybe I was _chasing him_. Maybe I've  _always_  been chasing him. 

"I've compared him to every guy that I'd given a second thought. I'd hear those stupid fucking show-tunes sometimes that he obnoxiously sang in the shower, and it was like a gut-punch. I told him I only thought about him sometimes, but I  _lied_. It was  _all the time._ I thought about him  _all the time_. And there are some people that you just can't forget about, and it's just—I've just always been lying and running away and deflecting emotions and you were  _right_ , Mendel. _I am pathetic."_

Mendel looks at him, surprise coloring his features. But he doesn't invite him in. No, someone else does.

"You know, I think that's the first thing I've ever heard you say that hasn't been a lie." Whizzer hears Trina's tired, wry voice inside the house, "Just come in already."

:: - ::

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, and Whizzer is reminded of that day at the diner, sitting in the booth with solidarity and secrets between them.

Then, Trina had looked at him happily but ignorantly.

Now, Trina looks at him with resignation, but at least she isn’t blind anymore.

"Jason's already left for school, and Mendel has to get to work." Trina tells him, "So did you need anything or are you just wanting to cry on someone's shoulder because your boyfriend dumped you?"

"You've grown meaner." Whizzer notes idly, an undercurrent of appreciation for her in his voice.

"I've had to." Trina says vaguely. 

They were never close, but they were never _strangers_. They were never friends but they were never _enemies_.

And Whizzer realizes that he's never even _apologized_ , for all that he'd done to her.

"Trina, I'm really sor—"

"Don’t. Just— _don’t_. I don't need your late, guilt-tripped apology." Trina scoffs, exasperation and bitterness clogging her tone, "I don't need  _this_  anymore, you know? This—This _migraine_ that you two have always given me. I'm not a  _side character_  in the Great Opera of Whizzer and Marvin anymore. I have a child and husband who _love_ me. I have a life where I am  _happy_. I got my _happy ending_."

"I didn't." The words spill out, accusing and pitiful.

Trina doesn't look sorry for him. She gives him a cool, withering look, "Well, that was your own fault."

"It was Marvin's fault," Whizzer tells her, and he wants back that silent, subtle gaze of hers, that _solidarity_ —he wants her to make him feel less alone, "He ruined us, Trina. He—"

" _Us_? There is no  _us._ Oh my god, are you  _serious_  right now?" Trina looks at him with scathing disappointment, "Jesus, Whizzer, you want  _me_  to feel sorry for you? News flash: just because Marvin was a bigger asshole than you doesn't take away from the fact that you were an asshole, too. We are not  _allies_  in this, Whizzer—not anymore. And honestly, looking back on it all? I don't think we ever were."

A silence takes the room by hostage.

"I am happy for you, Trina," Whizzer says honestly, "Really, I am. You deserve a happy ending."

Something hard in Trina's gaze breaks and softens.

"I thought you were so cool, back in the day. You were so nicely dressed and you broke so many hearts and you just didn't _care_ about what other people thought." Trina confesses suddenly, looking overwhelmed and ashamed at the honesty of it, "Especially that last part—of you not caring about other people's opinions. I—I  _envied_  that. It took me a long time to learn how to do the same thing."

Whizzer reaches over and covers Trina's hand with his own. Trina smiles, without fear or anxiety or insecurity. She looks so beautiful and happy.

Whizzer says after a long pause, "I'm still in love with Marvin."

She seems unfazed by this bombshell, "Tell me something that literally anyone who's ever seen you two around each other for three seconds doesn't know."

"I'm scared," He announces abruptly, "We don't know how to love each other the right way. It's gonna end bad, I know."

It's inappropriate and selfish to tell Trina this, to put her in a position of mediator and assurer. But Whizzer needs someone to talk to. Whizzer needs that solidarity, that mutual understanding of what he's going through.

Trina sighs and thinks for a long time, leaving Whizzer to an uncomfortable silence.

After awhile, she says gently, "You need to let go."

"I've  _tried_." 

"Not of him," Trina clarifies, surprising him, "Of the past."

Whizzer finally finds his voice, and it is small and broken, "It doesn't work like that." 

"You think that there are only two options: run away from the past or repeat it. But you can also just—let it go. You can always remember it, and you can talk to him about it, and you two can actually forgive each other, and then you can let it go. Maybe even build something new." He ignores his reflexive dismissal of the idea and thinks about it:

 _Whizzer and Marvin_. Talking _openly_ about all that happened. Dropping the masked, feigned _indifference_. Being _honest_ with each other.

"Marvin and I don't talk about that." Whizzer says unnecessarily, though this is the first time he's ever _truly_ wondered why.

"You need to. And you need to leave _me_ out of it." Trina stands up and leaves the room, signaling clearly that Whizzer has been dismissed. So he actually does something that's in  _Trina's_  best interest, something that  _Trina_  wants.

Without another word or plea for a pity party, he stands up and leaves.

:: - ::

Later that day, Whizzer is at Central Park, taking pictures of the sky. The action and setting reminds him of a memory, of him doing the same thing and thinking that he'll be able to keep his gaze on the horizon and force himself to get over everything that happened by ignoring it. He feels annoyance at his younger self but he quickly lets that go.

He lets it all go.

The anger. The cruel calculation. The bitterness. The heartbreak. 

That day, after he left Trina's house, he wandered around his old haunts, grabbing hold of these memories and putting them to rest. The art gallery. Marvin’s old apartment. The diner where he ran into Trina. The library. The racquetball court. The frat house with that toga party. The seven-eleven. The house of that unnamed, forgotten girl with a closet barely big enough for two immature, lonely men. The classroom of Introduction to Philosophy where this story began. 

He goes to all of these places and studies them and smiles at them and cries at them. And then he lets them go.

Whizzer takes another picture of the way the sun slowly starts its descent into the horizon, and he smiles. And he cries a little bit. And he lets this place go, too.

He hears Marvin walk up behind him, stopping only a few feet away. Whizzer smiles.

He turns around and snaps a picture of him, laughing at how Marvin winces at the flash and looks unamused.

"Asshole." He says on automatic.

"You look good in this lighting, Marv." Whizzer says, making Marvin smile a little through his annoyance.

"So," Marvin says, looking around the park and seemingly choked by the echo of the past still engrained in the air, "What is this about? Trying to recapture the past?"

"No." Even though he inwardly balks at the prospect of grass stains, Whizzer sits down on the ground, gesturing for Marvin to do the same.

When he sits next to him, Whizzer turns his gaze away from the horizon and looks instead at _Marvin_ , the man that he knew and loved. The man that he _knows_ and _loves_.

And they talk about it—about _everything_. They drop the pretenses and the indifference and the mind games. Whizzer tells him of the heartbreak, of wanting the best for Marvin and knowing that it wasn’t Whizzer but it also wasn’t Trina and falling in love with him and being so fucking scared about that and hating Marvin for never choosing him—even though he had always told him not to. Marvin tells him of the heartbreak, of wanting men his entire life and finally finding a beautiful, unattainable one and falling in love with him and wanting that man to be in love with him and being so scared of everyone else’s opinion and wanting it all and realizing that that hadn’t been fair of him only years and years later.

They talk and listen and laugh and cry. And Whizzer wants to say that it had been everything that he thought it would be—renewal of passions, happiness only found within one another, the promise of a future together, the promise of  _love—_ but it is not _everything_. It is only _one_ thing.

It is forgiveness. And Whizzer thinks that right now, that’s more than enough.

:: - ::

Marvin tells him, “I wanted to be with you so fucking much. I was too spineless to do anything about it—to accept myself and stop listening to other people. But when I thought about my future, it _always_ included you. It included _us_. It included no secrets. I wanted to be open and out with _you_. I wanted to make _you_ happy. I wanted to _be_ happy. I wanted you to love me.”

Whizzer tells him, “I loved you so fucking much. I was too spineless to even say the words—to admit it out loud to anyone.  But Marvin, I should have told you. I did love you. I loved the hell out of you.”

At this point in the long conversation, their voices are hoarse and the sun has almost completely disappeared. Even after their talk, they still don’t know where they stand with one another. Their past is forgiven but their future still stays suspended in uncertainty.

Whizzer doesn’t like to look back, to admit to any regrets, but still he needs to know, “Would you do it again? If you—If you knew then all that happened afterwards. Would you have still kissed me that night?”

Whizzer remembers his own response to that question, years ago: _"It doesn't matter," Whizzer says quickly, releasing his grip on Marvin's hand, "Just let it go."_

“I’d like to believe I would,” Marvin doesn’t hesitate, saying firmly, “That I’d do it again and again. That I would choose _you_ , every time.”

Whizzer looks up at the sky, feels a warm smile spread across his face. He feels happy.

“I’d like to believe that I’d let you, every time.” Whizzer concedes.

They’re sitting cross-legged, side by side, with their faces turned to the horizon.

 “I’m still moving out. It’s just the best thing for me and the possibility of an us,” Whizzer says, “But maybe you should, uh—you should call me, later. You know, ask me out on a date.”

Marvin huffs a laugh at the notion, pointing out, “You know, we’ve never even been on a first date.”

“Don’t take me somewhere fancy,” Whizzer says, “Go to somewhere like a fast-food diner—some place where you don’t spend a lot of money because you’re not sure whether this whole thing will pan out. You know, like a _proper_ first date.”

“Okay,” Marvin agrees, looking at him with stars in his eyes, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Whizzer covers Marvin’s hand with his own, the giddiness and hope rising within him and threatening to split him open. They stare at each other for a long time—adoringly, nervously, disbelievingly—before they slowly turn their gaze to the horizon.

And they don’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 60k words of this thing, and it is finally finished. After hours and hours of planning and writing and revising and reading feedback and sporadic updates, the great Opera of Whizzer and Marvin is finally finished. I had vague plans of writing a long, sappy last author's note - to express how grateful and amazed and proud I am of this story and its feedback. But there's just too much to say and too little character letters left, so I'll try to keep it short.   
> So many reads, so many reviews, so many creative people supporting other creative people (so, so, so much gratitude on my part for the fic-inspired artwork. If you don't know, people actually drew some of this!!!!! To see it, just go to my tumblr @moreracquetball and search the tag "fab art" for all the art dedicated to my writing in general but specifically this college au too - every single piece is just so amazing and awe-inspiring and it just overwhelms me to even write about). I have read and treasured every single comment and message sent to me, and it inspires and motivated and moves me to tears in a way I cannot articulate with words. This story was a journey, and I'm glad it was a journey not made alone.  
> I hope this was a satisfying ending, one that is hopeful of a tomorrow just as we all should be.  
> Again, I want the last words of this to be the best phrase in all of history: Chess ain't how your boyfriend thinks.  
> (KIDDING KIDDING KIDDING)  
> But really, THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and make me happy.


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